


Resistance

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Cloak and Dagger [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Grey Warden Joining, Grey Wardens, Grief, Missing Scene, Ostagar, Psychological Trauma, expansion on canonical material, the angst is balanced out with banter and characters trying to be witty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-10-03 01:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17274593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: Numbed by the events that took her away from Denerim, Rhea Tabris arrives in Ostagar to become a Grey Warden. But as she prepares for initiation and encounters an unexpected person, she discovers she can never truly let her past die.





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing DA:O one day and as I was running around the Korcari Wilds, I thought: "My Tabris is from Denerim. Daveth is from Denerim. WHAT IF THEY KNEW EACH OTHER? WHAT WOULD HAPPEN THEN?"
> 
> A hell of a lot of angst, apparently. 
> 
> Notes:  
> \- The explicit sexual content is in Chapter 2, starting about mid-way (if you want to skip it)  
> \- Shianni's rape is referenced, but not discussed.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Rhea was numb. 

Rain fell from the sky like the contents of a chamber pot that had been chucked out a window—heavy, foul and unwanted. Her cloak was soaked and her hands were frozen to the insides of her gloves. Her wedding bands—suspended on a chain around her neck—felt cold and heavy against her chest. She hadn’t realized it would be this cold in the south. She wished she was back in Denerim, where things were brighter, warmer and not so fucking _sodden._  

 _Andraste’s ass, does it_ have _to rain so much in the south?_  

She kicked a tuft of grass as she wandered, shivering, through the war camp. She had arrived in Ostagar earlier that day and it had fully and completely failed to impress. She had been verbally harassed by soldiers, ordered around by the quartermaster, and—to top it all off—had met the king and had to be escorted away when she told him that the only reason she was here was because she had killed one of his beloved nobles. She had seen nothing of the Grey Wardens save for some blundering idiot whose sense of humour was on par with the snotty-nosed ten-year-old who hung around the back alleys of the alienage. Already she was convinced she would have been better off rotting in a cell at the bottom of Fort Drakon. If she had known this would be her life now, she would never have accepted Duncan’s offer. 

The red-haired elf—the one who worked for the quartermaster, who had misplaced some lord’s sword—ran past her, face paled with worry. He was kind, but a bit of an idiot. 

His hair was the same colour as Soris and Shianni’s. 

 _Shianni…_  

Rhea froze as her cousin’s face swam in her mind’s eye. If she was in Fort Drakon, that would be the end of her. Shianni would live with the knowledge that Rhea would be executed. And if she was executed, there would never be justice for what had happened. Shianni would be on her own, Rhea’s death simply compounding the already present ache of trauma.   

Rhea pulled her cloak tighter and strode forwards, boots squelching in the mud. The wind lashed the rain against her, and she felt the cold, sharp spray against her cheeks. She gritted her teeth and ignored it. She passed tent after tent, watching the soldiers huddled around dying campfires, rubbing their hands together in a desperate search for warmth. One or two looked at her as she walked by, raising their hands in greeting then quickly letting them fall when she did not reciprocate. 

She wasn’t in Ostagar for the Grey Wardens. She wasn’t here for Duncan. And she certainly wasn’t here to help the king in his mad mission to turn the tide against the darkspawn. 

She was here because it was the only way she could live to fight another day. 

She was here for Soris and Valora. 

For Nelaros. 

For Shianni. 

This was but the first step towards a change that would flood this hell of a nation. 

“Rough night, isn’t it?” 

Rhea looked up and saw the Grey Warden from earlier—Duncan’s apprentice or something, if Grey Wardens even _had_ apprentices—leaning against an old stone pillar. Ostagar was littered with the things. Rhea supposed some people would find the ruins beautiful, but she found them useless. What was the point of making camp in a place that didn’t even have a roof to keep the rain out? 

“Yeah, I know how it is,” the warden said, folding his arms. His hood was down and the rain had flattened his sandy-brown hair against his head, making him look even younger. “It’s wet and cold and you’re miserable because everything’s soggy and being dry seems like a far-off dream that will never come true. These are the things they never tell you when you sign up for the job.” 

“I didn’t sign up for the job.” 

The warden opened his mouth, but no witty remarks came to him. He shut his mouth and went for an awkward laugh instead. “Some of us didn’t have a choice, that’s true.” 

“You had a choice,” Rhea said. 

“Why d’you say that?” 

“You’re not from an alienage.” She barely registered his stunned reaction; rather, she didn’t want to. Instead, she scowled and pushed forwards, brushing by him as she stalked away. “You should pull your hood up. You’ll catch a cold standing in the rain like that.”

“I doubt it,” he said. “I’m a warden. We’re known for our great stamina.” 

Rhea grunted. 

“Among other things!” he called at her retreating back. “Look, I know what that sounded like and I only meant that we are less likely to get sick than the common soldier. Not… whatever the other thing that that probably sounded like.” 

“Sure.” 

He jogged after her, slipping inelegantly in the mud. “You don’t talk much, do you?” 

“Not to strangers.” 

“But I’m not a stranger!” he exclaimed. “We’ve had our introduction. You’re Rhea and—” 

“I don’t remember your name.” She turned and glared at him. “Would you stop following me?” 

He raised his hands. “All right. I get it. You want to be alone. Maybe I would to, if I was in your position.” He paused, wiping rainwater out of his eyes. “But I am going to be overseeing your initiation. Would it hurt you so much to at least learn my name?” 

Rhea sighed, defeated. Anything to get him to stop talking. “Fine,” she said. “I’m sorry I forgot your name. I’ve forgotten most people’s names. I figure, why bother learning them when most of us are going to be dead in a few days when the darkspawn arrive?” 

“I can’t think about it like that.” The warden folded his arms, severity weighing in his stance. “These people… Cailan’s army… They have no idea what they’re up against. Maybe done of us do. Even those of us who have been with the Wardens for decades have never been up against a horde this size. That’s a true Blight out there. And yes, some of us are going to die. Many of us. Maybe me. Maybe you. But that doesn’t mean we are _worthless._ And knowing who you are to fight and die besides is perhaps one of the most important parts of being not just a solider, but a warden. _”_

The warden put a hand on her shoulder and Rhea froze at his touch. There was something so honest about his words, something so warm about his touch that she was unnerved by it. He was just so damn _genuine._ He spoke like he believed what he was saying with every fibre of his being. 

It had been a very long time since she had heard such honesty. And to find it here, in Ostagar, at the edge of the world, in a man she did not know… 

“What’s your name?” she asked. 

“Alistair.” 

“I’m…” Rhea swallowed. “I will be glad to fight at your side, Alistair.” 

He bowed his head and smiled. “Same to you.” He paused, smile fading. “We’ll be heading into the Korcari Wilds early tomorrow morning as part of your initiation. Mind you stop by the quartermaster and get outfitted with some proper armour. A darkspawn could tear through what you’re wearing without hesitation.” 

Rhea looked down at her tunic and trousers. The leather and coarse fabric had always suited her fine, but she supposed she wasn’t scrapping in back alleys anymore. “Fine.” 

Alistair pointed towards the kitchen tents. “You should get something to eat and find your tent. You’ll need your rest.” 

Rhea nodded. 

“I could use some food, to,” he continued. “Chasing after mages to deliver unwanted messages all day really works up an appetite.” 

Rhea grunted. 

“That was me asking if you wanted company,” Alistair said. “In case you didn’t get that—” 

“I got it, thanks.” 

“Okay, okay, just checking.” He cleared his throat. “I just assumed… since you don’t know anyone here except me. And Duncan…” He laughed nervously. “I mean, no one should have to eat alone on their first night, right?” 

“Fine, you can come with me.” Rhea walked away, heading towards the kitchen tents. Even through the horrendous rain, she could smell something roasting. Her stomach growled. She hoped Alistair hadn’t noticed. 

Alistair jogged after her. “It’s a date!” he said cheerfully, then stopped in his tracks. “Well, not a _date_ date. You know what I mean. It’s just a saying, an idiom, I didn’t mean—” 

“You didn’t mean to flirt with me?” 

“Oh, now you’re making it worse.” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Can we please start again?” 

“For what, the third time?” 

“If that’s what it takes.” 

“All right, I’ll forget everything you’ve ever said. Including your name. We’ll have to do these introductions _all_ over again.” 

“Oh, dear Maker.”

They reached the kitchen tents and ducked inside the flap of the nearest one. A swarm of men and women in the king’s colours packed the tent from corner to corner. Chatter and laughter filled the air and someone, somewhere in the crowd played a lute. Poorly, Rhea thought, but that didn’t matter—the music was welcomed by all. 

Rhea paused. The soldiers seemed… happy. Content. As though the knowledge of their impending deaths could not reach them. 

Somehow, she had expected something different. 

Somehow, she thought they would all be as miserable as she felt. 

She pushed back her hood and breathed in the scent of meat and bread. The warmth of the scent spread to her fingers and toes. She glanced at Alistair, taking in his awkward, toothy grin and for the first time since her arrival in Ostagar, her numbness thawed. 

“For what it’s worth,” Alistair said, “welcome to the Grey Wardens.”   

She followed him through the crowd to the tables. A couple of middle-aged women with tired, but kind eyes served them a decent helping of the evening’s grub. Rhea devoured her meal without complaint, eating as she walked, still on Alistair’s heels. 

“I’m not sure if Duncan told you,” he said over his shoulder, “but there are two other recruits who haven’t undergone their initiation yet. They’ll be joining us tomorrow. I thought it would be good for you to meet them before we move out—” 

They approached a cluster of young men and women sitting around a man with dark hair plucking at a lute. They had found the mysterious bard. 

“Alistair!” a man in full plate armour called. “Ho!” 

“Ho, Jory,” Alistair said as the man clapped him on the back. 

“I see you made it out of that foul rain,” the man said. “About time you joined us. I had a thought to ask you about what is required of us tomorrow—” 

“You know I can’t answer that,” Alistair said. “You’ll find out soon.” 

“Yes, but—” 

Alistair turned to Rhea and pulled her into the circle. “Rhea, this is Ser Jory,” he said. “One of your fellow initiates. He hails from Redcliffe, where he has the most beautiful wife—” 

“Helena,” Jory said. 

“—of whom he speaks _constantly,”_ Alistair finished. 

“Helena’s with child,” Jory said proudly, puffing up like a peacock. 

The lute screeched as the bard’s fingers plucked a little too forcefully. “Yes, you’ve said it a dozen times, mate. Trust me, _we know.”_  

“It’s our first,” Jory added. 

 _“We know,”_ the bard repeated. 

Rhea frowned. Something about that voice, that tone— 

The bard set his lute down and looked up. He flashed a grin in their direction, eyes sweeping over Rhea without truly taking her in. “I’m Daveth,” he said. “You don’t need to know where I’m from—” 

Rhea nearly dropped her plate. 

“Daveth is our last recruit,” Alistair said. “He will be joining us tomorrow as well.” 

“And I’m excited for it, yeah?” Daveth said. “This deserves a song. I think all Grey Warden recruits deserve a song. What do you say, mates?” 

The cluster of soldiers cheered their approval through half-full mouthed and Daveth picked up his lute. As he struck a chord, his eyes fell on Rhea and he froze, mouth half-open as he realized who stood before him. 

 _“Rey.”_  

A tall man in rusted armour and a yellow cloak shook Daveth’s shoulder, snapping him out of it. His fingers found the strings and he played, an old Denerim shanty from the harbour, one he had played a hundred times. 

His eyes never left Rhea’s face. 

She stood still, avoiding his gaze, eating her mash, working her damn hardest to act like everything was normal, as if she hadn’t just run into the man she had forced out of her life a year ago. And as soon as she was done, she thanked Alistair under her breath and disappeared through the crowd and out of the tent. 

Only then did she run, hood down, rain soaking her hair and face, searching for the furthest corner of the camp. 

Searching for a place where her past would not find her.


	2. Lost, Found and Lost Again

He found her anyway. 

You didn’t run with the Ravens and not learn how to find someone. 

Though, of course, the camp was small. There were only so many places she could go without leaving its boundaries—and then she would be called a deserter. She imagined picking a direction and walking away. Not stopping for anything, just walking until she could walk no further. Would they come after her? Clap her in irons and throw her in a cage? She imagined the disappointed look on Duncan’s face. A single day in the Grey Wardens and a deserter already. 

This wasn’t _her_ war she was fighting. 

Rhea sighed, shaking herself. Cold seeped into her bones. She sat on the floor of a broken tower, directly beneath the small piece of roof that remained. She had scrounged together what little dry wood she could find and lit a fire. The flames were small, but it was enough to warm her hands. She wondered if what Alistair said was true—that this far south you never truly dried out. 

He was truthful about everything else. He was probably right about this, too. 

“Fuck,” she said. 

“Sounds about right,” Daveth said. He leaned against the stone wall, lips pursed, arms folded. “I can honestly say I’m surprised to see you, Rey.” 

“Yeah. Me, too.” 

“What the hell are you doing here?” 

“Joining the Grey Wardens.” 

“Yes, but why?” 

Rhea passed a hand through the tip of the orange flames. It hurt, but it was a pleasant hurt. Hot and vivid. “Because on my wedding day, a lord’s son saw fit to murder my husband and rape my cousin, so I killed him,” she said. “You?” 

Daveth sunk to the floor, back scraping the wall. “Maker’s breath…” He rubbed his forehead. “Rhea… I—” 

“Don’t know what to say?” She laughed bitterly and removed her hand from the flames. “That’s fine. Neither do I.” 

He paused, uncertain. “If you need to talk…” 

“I don’t,” Rhea interrupted. “Believe me, I really, _really_ don’t.” 

Outside the tower, the rain thundered on. 

“Still,” Daveth said. “It’s nice to see you.” 

“Yeah.” 

Rhea wrapped her arms around her legs and held them tight. She rested her cheek against the top of her knees and watched Daveth in the flickering firelight. One year. How much could one year change a person? He looked older. Much older. There were greys in his dark hair. The scar on his lip was new. The corners of his eyes creased when he smiled. 

At least he could still smile. In that way, he hadn’t changed. He still had that terrible sense of humour. Babs had once said he wasn’t witty enough to understand what wit was, but she gave him points for trying. 

Unlike Rhea. Babs had never given _her_ points. 

“Things were never the same after you left,” Daveth said. He stretched out his legs, one foot scraping at the loose rock in the broken floor. “Everything went sideways. Well… I mean, it was already pretty sideways, but then it went so sideways it pretty much flipped itself over, if you take my meaning. Soon enough there was a bounty on all our heads. Then Ollie got gutted and Babs lost an eye protecting him and she took off. Don’t know where exactly. Amaranthine maybe, although Fisk swore she went to Jader. Gotta trust those Orlesians to have the goods on them, eh?” 

Rhea nodded. She hadn’t seen her old crew in a year and she doubted she would ever see any of them again. Not that they cared. Not that _she_ cared. She couldn’t trust any of them anymore. 

One of their jobs had gotten her mother killed. 

It wasn’t Daveth’s fault. It wasn’t even Babs’. 

It was hers—but even now, as she thought about it, her stomach clenched with a wave of nausea. She could never admit it. It was easier to place the blame squarely on the Ravens than admit that her involvement with them had led to her mother’s death.

“Dell and Mari went to Highever,” Daveth continued. “I think Ulster tried to make his way back to Orzammar, but last I heard they wouldn’t let him in and he caused such a fuss at the gates they arrested him. Went down fighting—took six of them out. Don’t know how much of that is true. It’s Ulster. He probably tripped over a root and broke his own neck.” 

Rhea tugged at an ear, her piercings hard and cold against her fingers. 

“And Fisk and me…” Daveth exhaled. “We stayed in Denerim. Too much work to move someplace else. We thought about Kirkwall, but I think the city’s completely bonkers.” He rubbed a hand over his chin, scratching at the stubble. “I thought I’d see you. Denerim’s a big place and all, but I thought… There will be the day when I’m walking down the street and Rhea Tabris is standing right there. With her cousins. Or her husband. Happy. I…” He looked down. “I wanted you to be happy, Rey.” 

She swallowed. “Thanks.” 

“Were you? After you left?” 

She closed her eyes. “I don’t know.” 

“Babs always said you were either going to be the greatest thief Denerim had ever seen, or you were going to escape this life of crime and make yourself a better person than the rest of us,” Daveth said. “She got pissed for a week. For a woman with a heart of steel, I’d say that counts as missing you.” 

_Fuck Babs. Fuck them all._  

Rhea’s mouth was dry. “What about you? You and Fisk. You must’ve had a time watching out for him if it was just you two.” She paused, hugging her knees close. “If you’re here, he can’t be far away. Little twerp never let you out of his sight—” 

“Fisk’s dead,” Daveth said.   

Fisk was the youngest. Bright, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, with round cheeks that had never truly lost their baby fat. His mother was a prostitute at the Pearl, which was how he found the Ravens in the first place. Clambered into their booth one night when they traipsed in after a heist and never left. Fisk had attached himself to Daveth, hanging on to his every word. Annoying brat, but he was nimble and he learned fast.   

He couldn’t have been more than fifteen when Rhea saw him last. 

“They… uh, they got him pretty quick,” Daveth continued. “Strung him up and let him hang outside the fort for two weeks. His neck didn’t break when they dropped him. He swung there ‘til the life choked out of him.” He grimaced. “Poor boy.” 

Rhea’s hands clenched into fists. 

“That’s when I said, _Daveth, I don’t want to be you,”_ he added. “You don’t want to be the man whose hanging goes wrong. They say it’s the worse kind of end for you. Better to get knifed in the street or get hit by a horse or… eat poisoned bread and shit yourself to death.” He shrugged and picked up a stone he had kicked loose. He placed it in his palm, testing its weight. “So I hung low. Cowardly thing to do, but that’s what I did.” 

He laughed bitterly. “But you know the thing about hanging low? There’s not much money in it.” He tossed the rock. It skipped across the tower floor and out into the rain. “You know I’m here because I did something stupid, right? Stupid, stupid. Stupid Daveth. I saw this big man, tall man, all regal and official-looking. I hadn’t hit a mark in weeks and I thought, _if you go for anyone, this is the man to get._ So I cut his purse and ran. Turned out he was a lot faster and a lot smarter than I gave him credit, and he chased me right into the guards.” He chuckled. “They, uh… They wanted to hang me right away. But Duncan said no. Said he needed men with my nerve. And he conscripted me right then and there and packed me off to Ostagar.” He shook his head, laughter still on his lips. “I picked Duncan’s pocket and now I’m going to be a Grey Warden. Babs would laugh her head off.” 

Daveth’s mirth died as he glanced across the tower floor at Rhea. “Say something, Rey,” he said. “Please.” 

She shot him a look, eyes narrowed and dark. She wanted him to go. She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to stop talking, to stop telling her about their stupid crew and the stupid, horrible, _terrible_ things that had happened to them.   

She thought she would go mad if she stopped hearing his voice. 

“What do you want me to say?” Rhea bit out finally. “You’re the one who came here looking for me, not the other way!” 

“Hey, hey—” He raised his hands. “Don’t bite me. I’m just trying to…” He exhaled a burst of breath. “I don’t even know why I try with you.” He stood up, brushing off his breeches and pulling his hood over his head. “But I guess the Maker saw fit to stick us together again, so I’ll be seeing you—” 

Rhea scrambled to her feet. “No—” 

“Goodnight.” 

“Wait!” Rhea grabbed his arm, pulling him back before he entered the rain. 

Daveth swung around, glaring at her from under his hood. “What?” he said coldly. 

“Forget what I said,” Rhea said. “It is good to see you.” 

He snorted. “Liar.” 

Rhea’s hand tightened on his arm. “I mean it. I didn’t expect to find anyone I knew here, least of all you—” 

“…thanks?” 

“—but it’s nice to know that whatever it is we’re about to go through, I know someone who is going to share that exact same experience.” 

Daveth smiled. “Awww, Rey,” he said. “You do have a heart. Somewhere in there.” 

“No, I don’t,” she said quickly. “I just pretend I do.” 

Lightning flashed and a crack of thunder echoed across the camp. Daveth glanced at the dark sky and shuddered. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I might stay a while. Come of think of it, I don’t really fancy going out in the rain now that there’s a storm brewing—” 

Rhea’s lips twitched. “Scared of a little lightning?” 

“Maybe.” 

She snorted. “What’s this? An attempt at honesty?” 

“It’s known to happen from time to time,” he said. He brushed by her and sat by the fire, knees cracking as he lowered himself onto the floor. 

The flames danced, casting shadows on the wall. 

“So,” Daveth drawled. “Last night before we become Grey Wardens.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“Seems like we should… celebrate or something.” 

Rhea raised an eyebrow as she sat beside him. “Or something?” 

“I dunno.” Daveth stretched, raising his hands and resting them against the back of his neck. “Feels like a whole lot of weird shit is going to happen tomorrow. There’s some weird secret to this Warden initiation. I’ve been trying to worm it out of Alistair since I got here, but he’s surprisingly tight-lipped. And Duncan’s too far too stoic to spill the beans. I can pick his pockets, but I can’t pick his secrets.” 

Rhea stared at the flames. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” 

“Any bets on what it is?” 

“Not really.” 

Daveth’s disappointment was unmistakeable, but he shrugged and brushed it off. “Whatever it is… everything is going to change tomorrow.” 

Rhea nodded. She jumped suddenly as her entire body shook. Damn, she was still cold. The dampness had set in. She couldn’t get warm. She inched closer to the fire. 

Daveth glanced at her. “Cold?” he asked. 

“I’m fine.” 

“You spent too long in the rain,” he said. He reached out, grasping the edge of her cloak between his fingers, feeling the dampness. “No wonder you’re cold.” 

She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. “Thanks for pointing out the obvious.” 

“You should have said something,” Daveth said, rustling around in a pocket. “Here—try this. It’ll warm you up in seconds.” He withdrew a flask and tossed it to her. 

She caught it. “This is Babs,” she said, running a finger over it. 

“Yeah. She gave it to me when she left for Amaranthine or wherever.” 

Rhea raised an eyebrow. “You mean you stole it from her.” 

“Gave, steal… same thing really,” Daveth said. “When it comes to Babs, I mean.” 

Rhea chuckled, pressed the flask to her lips and tilted her head back. The sharp, fiery taste of dwarven whiskey filled her mouth and she coughed, scrunching her nose. “Yup,” she said, voice hoarse. “That’s the stuff.” 

Daveth laughed. “Been a while?” 

“Since I’ve had Babs’ own brew?” Rhea said. “There’s only one place you get that stuff and it’s from the lady herself. Don’t tell me you kept it all this time.” 

“I had a stash.” 

“Did she ‘give’ that to you as well?” 

“What do you think?” 

Rhea took another drink. She didn’t cough this time. 

Warmth spread in her stomach, staving off the clamminess. She smiled and passed the flask back to Daveth. “Here.” 

“Thanks.” He took a long drink and put the flask down. “Maker’s breath. Who would have thought a year ago that this is where we’d end up, eh? _Us._ Grey Wardens.” 

He passed the flask back to her. 

“Do you really want to be a Grey Warden, Dav?” she asked, taking another sip. 

“I dunno...” He smirked. “There’s a kind of… fantasy to it, isn’t there? I mean, they’re not just warriors, they’re _legends._ They aren’t like common soldiers, they don’t fight in stupid little spats over who owns what piece of land. They fight evil. Actual evil. And we will, too. It’s like we’re about to step into a fairy tale.” 

“It’s a pretty dark fairy tale.” 

“Aren’t all fairy tales dark?” 

She shrugged. “Fair point.” 

“Still…” Daveth shook his head. “It really is something to be a part of something so _big._ So real. Whatever Denerim was, it all seems so petty in comparison. I’ve never felt so… alive before.” 

_He has a point._  

Did he? Or was that the whiskey talking? 

Did she feel alive? Did she feel part of something bigger than herself? 

“Hey—toss that back?” 

Rhea held out the flask. Daveth took it—and his hand lingered on hers. His skin was warm. Delightfully warm, truth be told. And so very real. 

“Rey...” His voice was low and musky. 

“Yes?” 

“Can I have my whiskey back?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” 

The flask dropped. 

They crashed together, her hands locked behind his neck, his arms around her body, lips pressed together furiously. It wasn’t a kiss, it was something much more raw. Her teeth clashed against his and she felt his tongue in her mouth, hot and desperate. He tasted like Babs’ stupid whiskey. 

He pushed her and she landed on her back, hard. His weight sank into her as he straddled her, kissing her neck, sucking, biting, nipping at the sensitive spots he so clearly remembered. His stubble was coarse and rough and familiar against her skin. Her hands clawed the ground, fingernails scraping against the loose stone in the broken floor. She moaned, letting herself go, riding on a pain that delighted her. 

Rhea seized his hands and put them on her breasts. He cupped them, squeezing them through the fabric of her tunic. He pulled at the strings of her shirt, opening it, exposing her chest. Daveth paused as he glanced at the simple gold and silver bands that lay against her heart, suspending on a chain around her neck, the significance undeniable. A question formed on his lips, but Rhea shook her head. 

_Not tonight. Not right now._

He knew. She didn’t have to say a word. 

He nodded and, ignoring the bands, pulled her breast band down, leaving the fabric slung beneath her breasts. He ran a thumb over her right breast, thumb circling its dark nipple until it was taut and aching, then bent his head and pulled it into his mouth. 

Rhea gasped, closing her eyes, giving into the sensation. His lips sucked and pulled, tongue flicking over her nipple, circling, licking, teasing. His hands clutched her shoulders, fingers digging in tight, holding her down. She grunted, wrapping her arms around his body, pulling him in. She gripped his hair and pulled his mouth from her breast, forcing him back to her lips. 

She was flushed with heat, aching with desire. She wanted to live, she wanted to forget, she wanted… she wanted to feel _something,_ chase the damn numbness away. 

She wasn’t numb because she was cold. 

She was numb because she was broken. 

She didn’t know how to fix it. Maybe there wasn’t a fix. Not all wounds healed. Some became scars. 

But in the meantime, she could bandage what she could. 

Rhea nipped his lower lip, moaning against his mouth. Daveth grunted, murmuring something that sounded like her name, and surrendered to her. She locked her legs around his waist and her gut clenched as she felt his hardness pressing against her. 

She pushed herself forcefully sideways and they rolled, almost going into the fire. She slammed him into the ground and sat on top of him. She sat straight, arching her back so he had a good look at her breasts, and pulled her long, dark hair back and over one shoulder. She rolled her hips, grinding against the bulge in his breeches.   

“Damn, Rey,” he murmured. “You look good.” 

“Shut up.” 

She kissed him, lips raw and bruised from the ferocity of her kisses. She slipped her hands under his tunic and raked her fingernails up and down his stomach. She tore hungrily at the laces of his breeches, fingers stroking his erection through the fabric, eager to touch it, squeeze it, make _him_ feel— 

Daveth seized her by the waist. She yelped as he flipped her, and then she was on her back once again, staring at the broken roof above. His mouth was on her throat, hungry and needy, kissing, biting, teeth scraping against her flesh. 

She squealed and, surprised by her own volume, slammed a hand against her mouth. She felt a sharp pinch as he tugged at her nipple harder than usual.  

“You can be louder, you know,” he said, words mushed and sloppy against her throat, speaking between kisses. “I _like_ when you’re loud.” 

“Do you want the whole camp to hear?”

He slipped a hand down her trousers, gliding through her folds, pushing against her cunt, moving up to her clit, swollen, wet and hot. She inhaled sharply as he stroked it, building the pressure. “Maybe I do. You never cared before—” 

“This isn’t Denerim—” 

“I don’t care.” 

She gasped, chest heaving as he worked her. She felt sticky, sweat clinging to her breasts. Her hips bucked against his hand. She would come right now if she didn’t hold on. “Everyone will know.” 

_“I don’t care.”_

She shook, trembling. So close, _so close._ “Every person in this camp, from servant to the King, will know who we are tomorrow—” 

“Only if they hear us through all this rain—” 

“They’ll _know_. They’ll know that we’re—” 

He pressed harder against her clit. _“I don’t care.”_  

“Dav—” She yelped he withdrew his fingers and gave her stomach a little slap. Then he tore at her laces and pulled her trousers down, over her boots and off. Cold air rushed over her body and her ass felt very raw and bare against the stone floor. 

“There’s going to be a battle soon,” Daveth said as he unlaced his own breeches. His cock slapped against his stomach. He pushed her legs apart and pressed the tip into her folds, teasing, taunting. It nudged her clit and she shivered, aching, slick with desire, gut clenched with anticipation. “We aren’t the only ones looking to feel _alive.”_

Rhea looked up at him. Her wedding bands lay heavy on her chest. Cold silver. Cold gold. 

“Show me,” she commanded.

He slid into her all at once. She hissed at the tight pain, forcing her muscles to relax, to stretch, to accept him. She wrapped her bare legs around him, feet clenching and unclenching as he moved inside her. They rocked, hips bucking, losing their rhythm more than once, a desperate stop-start, stop-start. He gripped her, pinning her down against the stone floor. She felt every crevice in the stone as he thrusted. Her back ached, but it was a good ache, an ache she embraced. 

A strange thought came to her as he grunted and groaned over her. She never had the chance to consummate her marriage. Nelaros was sweet, caring—he hadn’t dared sully tradition and sleep with her before the wedding. That left Daveth as her last lover, over a year ago.   

He was the last man to fuck her. 

And here he was, fucking her again. 

The gall.

She laughed wildly as she writhed beneath him. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“It… it would take to long to explain—” 

“I’ve got time.” 

“I’m not going to say.” 

He grunted, low and guttural. “Fine. It’s your turn to shut up anyway.” He kissed her, lips tearing at hers, rough and ragged and raw and ravenous. He kissed her everywhere—mouth, neck, throat, breasts—his kisses sharp and vivid. There would be marks tomorrow.    

Her fingers scratched at his chest, and in return his dug into her skin. Breath—haggard, ragged breath—left her, sounds escaping wantonly. She let them. She could be uncontrolled, just for tonight. She felt rough, she felt torn, she felt desperate, she felt everything. 

She wanted to feel good. She wanted to hurt. 

That was the only thing that mattered in this moment. 

He came before she did, gasping and panting and groaning and clinging to her. He slid from her, sticky and reeking of sweat and sex, and collapsed beside her. The pressure within her, coiled so tight, relaxed and she hissed, not wanting to release it yet. Her fingers darted between her legs, refusing to let the tension die. Daveth kissed her shoulder and caught her hand, pushing it away. Then he slipped his head between her legs, hot tongue against her cunt, gliding over her clit, coaxing her back to oblivion. 

He still remembered how to finish her. She was thankful for that. 

She grasped his hair, pulling on it as he nipped and sucked, drowning her in desire. She moaned, her voice crying out wordlessly. He chuckled, breath whispering over her swollen cunt. His tongue circled and circled, ushering her towards a peak and she exploded with sensation. She screamed her pleasure, voice hoarse, riding the wave for as long as she could, body shaking, back arching, hips bucking, feet spasming— 

And then she dropped back into stone cold reality. 

Daveth sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That brings back a few memories.” 

Rhea lay on her back, breathless, feeling every mark, every bruise. She would be sore tomorrow. “Sure.” 

Daveth lay a hand on her stomach. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” She sat up and tugged at her hair. “Too much whiskey.” 

Daveth chuckled. He leaned in and kissed her gently. Pain flashed through her swollen lips. She drew away. 

“Too much?” he asked. “Ah well… I shouldn’t expect much. We were always a, ‘we do this for fun’ kind of couple. If you could call us a couple.” He looked at her, hard. “I know you didn’t.” 

Rhea swallowed. “I’m sorry.” 

He waved a hand. “Don’t be. Look, it’s pretty simple. I like having sex with you. Doesn’t have to mean much more than that—unless we want it to.” He ran a hand through her hair and cupped her chin. “As far as I’m concerned, this was a ‘two Grey Warden recruits let off some steam before their initiation’ kind of night. Which I’m sure Jory is doing as well. Probably by himself.” Daveth cocked his head to one side. " _Hopefully_ by himself, or else he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do to that wife of his.” 

Rhea smiled tightly. 

“Bah,” Daveth said. “I’m rambling.” He kissed her forehead, then stood and did his breeches back up. 

Rhea pulled her trousers back on and rearranged her shirt so her breasts weren’t hanging out. Then she sat by her dying fire and poked at it with a stick, coaxing it back to life. “Storm’s over,” she said. “I think we fucked through all the thunder.” 

“Seems like it.” 

“You’re safe now.” 

He punched her teasingly on the shoulder and, chuckling to himself, walked to the edge of the tower and stuck his hand out, feeling for drops of lingering rain. “Are you staying here for the night? It’s a pretty forlorn place.” 

“I’m a pretty forlorn kind of person.” 

“You could come back with me.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

Daveth turned and pulled his hood up, disappearing into the darkness. “Goodnight, Rhea.” 

She waited until he was gone. “Goodnight, Daveth,” she whispered. 

_Shit._


	3. Into the Wilds

She was sore all over. 

_It’s your own damn fault,_ she thought viciously. She had woken alone on the cold stone, body aching, her campfire nothing but dead, ashen coals. Her lips were swollen and, when she ducked her head under her tunic to see the damage, she discovered she was covered in bruises. She ran a finger gingerly over her marked collarbone, poking at the tender skin and tried not to think about Daveth. 

Their initiation was today. She was going out into the wilds with him, on some unknown mission. Gone were the days when they could have a quick, easy roll in the metaphorical hay and then ignore each other for weeks. They were going to be Grey Wardens. He was stuck in her life now just as much as she was in his. 

She didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.    

The worst part was that now the night was over, she felt numb again. She pulled the gold and silver bands out of her shirt, feeling their weight in her palm. Nelaros, Shianni… 

_No._  

She stuffed the rings back under her tunic where they belonged—felt, but out of sight. 

Rhea grit her teeth as she made her way from her little campfire and across camp to the quartermaster. The morning air was thick with fog and the previous night’s rain had turned the ground had turned into a muddy wasteland. Soldiers, templars and mages wove their way sleepily through camp. They spoke very little to each other. Some raised a hand as she passed, but she moved onwards without acknowledgement. She pulled her cloak tight, making sure her neck was covered. 

She felt like everyone was staring at her. 

“Rough night?” 

Rhea jumped. The quartermaster was eyeing her up and down with a professional look. “Maybe,” she said finally. 

He snorted. “This Maker-forsaken place doesn’t coddle you,” he said. “So, what will it be, recruit? Armour? Weapons? You need better equipment if you’re going into the wilds.” 

He nodded to his assistant, who pulled out pieces of equipment—used, scratched and in need of a good polish. Whoever had worn these before had not met a pleasant end. 

Rhea raised an eyebrow. “Don’t the Grey Wardens have their own armour?” 

The quartermaster guffawed. “None that they’ll give you. Not until you pass your initiation.” 

Rhea rolled her eyes. For all this talk about being a Grey Warden, she didn’t feel much like one. “All right. Give me whatever you’ve got.” 

Ten minutes later she was suited up in a flexible leather armour, designed for dexterity and agility. She had never worn something quite like this before—she had never really worn armour—but as she tested her range of motion, she found that it was to her liking. She pulled her hair into a braid and set off to find something to eat. As she walked, she tested her daggers. One was longer than the other, more like a short sword than a proper dagger. The weapons felt heavy and unfamiliar in her hands, but she would grow used to them in time. 

She found something to eat in the kitchen tents. She saw Daveth in the cluster of yawning and groaning soldiers and swerved to avoid him. If he saw her, all he saw was her hording breakfast mash and retreating into a clump of trees to eat in silence. 

Rhea was the first to arrive at the gates. She paced back and forth, thinking about all the things that could go wrong that morning, of what they might find out there beyond the camp boundaries. Bandits, deserters, wolves, monsters… And darkspawn. She had never seen a darkspawn. She had no idea what they looked like. She had an idea in her head, of course, based on tales parents used to spook their small children. In her mind’s eyes, she imagined creatures the size of men with long claws and rotting flesh and blackened teeth. 

What did she know of them? Nothing, really. Only that they carried disease and famine and killed indiscriminately. They were terrors from an ancient past, a curse sent as punishment. Or whatever the Chantry said. Rhea had never been very good at paying attention to the teachings of Revered Mothers. 

“You look terrible. Rough night?” 

Rhea avoided Alistair’s gaze. “Why does everyone keep saying that?” 

“Because the first night is always the worst,” he said. 

Behind Alistair, Rhea saw Daveth and Jory making their way through the sludge towards them. Like her, they were outfitted in plain armour. Jory carried a greatsword and Daveth had a quiver and bow strapped to his back. On his hip flashed a set of daggers, not unlike her own. 

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Alistair continued. “I, for one, think it’s healthy for warriors to show a little vulnerability—” 

“I’m fine, Alistair,” Rhea said shortly. “The others are here, can we get on with it?” 

“Pleasant morning, eh?” Daveth said, striding up to him. He glanced at Rhea, but she was currently very interested in her daggers. 

“I don’t see anything pleasant about it,” Jory said, frowning at the fog. 

“Well, you sure are chipper in the mornings,” Daveth replied. “Are you sure you didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” 

“Shut up, Daveth,” Rhea muttered. 

“Aw, Rhea, don’t be a spoilsport—” 

“I trust you have a plan, Alistair,” Rhea continued, turning to their mortified-looking leader. “And that you didn’t ask us out here at the crack of dawn to stand around in the cold freezing our bits off.” 

Alistair coughed and cleared his throat. Clearly, this was not how he had expected this morning to turn out. “Yes,” he said. “A plan. There is a plan. Well, it’s Duncan’s plan, really. It’s best he explain it.” 

Duncan strode out of the mist, white and silver armour frosting in the cold. He towered over them, the image of a powerful, serious warrior. Rhea could hardly believe she and Daveth were about to join the same order as someone as grave as Duncan. It all seemed like a bad joke. 

Maybe it was. 

Alistair straightened in the presence of his superior, giving a sloppy, but accurate salute. “Duncan.” 

Duncan nodded grimly at them. “Good, you’re all here,” he said. “What I am about to ask of you is not to be taken lightly. You four will be heading into to Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit.” 

“Blood?” Daveth said. 

“Yes,” Duncan replied. 

_“Blood?”_ Daveth repeated.

“I don’t understand,” Jory said. “Why do we need the blood of those creatures?” 

“It is part of the Joining,” Duncan said. “To become a Grey Warden, you must complete this task. Can you do it?” 

Jory opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Rhea cut in. 

“Yes,” she said firmly. She caught Daveth’s eye. He nodded at her. 

Jory still looked like he was in shock.  

“You must work together to gather the components,” Duncan continued. “Watch each other’s backs. It’s as much a part of the Joining as what comes after.” 

“And what comes after?” Jory asked. 

“I’ll explain more once you’ve returned,” Duncan replied. 

Rhea’s eyes narrowed. _He’s hiding something. But what? And why?_  

“And the second task?” she asked. The fog lay on her heavily, the cold sinking into her bones. She was itching to stop standing around talking and _move._   

“There was once a Grey Warden archive in the wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts,” Duncan said. “It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them.” He turned to Alistair. “I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.” 

Alistair nodded. “Of course.” 

“What’s in the scrolls?” Rhea asked. 

“Old treaties, if you’re curious,” Duncan said. “Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago. Invaluable in the days ahead.” 

“We’ll find them,” Rhea said. 

Duncan smiled. “Your self-assurance is a remarkable thing. A reminder that we need people with your dedication standing with us.” 

_Is he trying to compliment me to make me feel better about being torn from my family?_  

Duncan made Rhea uneasy. She had a difficult time sorting out her feelings about him. On one hand, he had saved her. On the other, he had taken her away from the only world she had known, drawing her into something she was distinctly unprepared for. How was a girl from an alienage who grew up scrapping in back alleys supposed to fight darkspawn? 

Duncan bid them farewell and they passed through the gate, the guards giving them a warning about the dangers beyond. As they tramped up the path and into the cold, wet swampland, Rhea fell behind. She fingered her daggers, ears perked up, breathing light. She anticipated something to go wrong with every step they took. Daveth and Jory fared no better, worry and anxiety lining their faces. And though Alistair took the lead, even he seemed on edge. 

A mile or so up the path, they found a wounded soldier. He babbled about darkspawn and monsters and the death of his squad. Alistair bandaged his wounds and sent him back to camp. They carried on, the shadows growing between the trees, the fog swirling, clouding their vision.

Something was going to happen. The only question was when. 

A crack of a breaking branch echoed through the woods. Rhea drew her daggers, Jory his greatsword. Alistair unsheathed his sword and held up a hand, looking to and fro. Rhea wasn’t sure what he was looking for—some sign that only a warden was familiar with, probably, something the rest of them would miss. 

Daveth put an arrow on the string. 

“Hold,” Alistair murmured. _“Hold.”_  

Something growled, low and hoarse, from the underbrush. Then a ferocious grey animal leapt forwards, teeth gnashing, claws outstretched, barreling forwards. It leapt at Alistair and he caught it on his shield, pushing it away and running it through with a vicious undercut. The animal howled as it crashed to the ground and lay still. 

“Wolves!” Alistair shouted. 

Rhea had never seen a wolf. She had always thought they were like dogs, or mabari hounds. 

They weren’t. 

They were much, much larger. 

The pack’s eyes glowed red as they stalked them through the woods. Daveth let loose an arrow and it soared into a tangle of trees, hitting soft ground. A snarling wolf leapt from the underbrush, rushing towards him in a blur of grey fur and silver claws. 

The wolf jumped up on its hind legs and snapped at Daveth, but Jory shouldered him out of the way, swinging his greatsword. The sword cleaved through fur and flesh, showering him with blood. Four more wolves darted out of the woods. Alistair shouted, clanging his sword against his shield, taunting them, drawing them towards him. They spun, flicking up mud, and ran towards him, growling with bloodlust. 

The wolves tore at Alistair’s legs, leapt up on his back, jaws snapping, teeth searching for flesh to tear. Rhea rushed forwards and stabbed one in its exposed back, tearing it off Alistair. It whined and hissed and she slit its throat, fresh blood bubbling over her hands. She backed away, daggers held before her as its mate spun towards her, flashing its teeth as it prowled. 

She raised her dagger as it leapt, jaws seeking to tear her flesh— 

_Twang._

An arrow pierced its throat and it fell to the ground with a definitive _thud_ , its corpse sliding over the grass and mud as it rolled down a small incline in the path. Rhea looked up and saw Daveth lower his bow. 

“Thanks,” she said. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

With a yell, Alistair threw off the remaining wolves, he and Jory dispatching them with their blades. 

The woods grew eerily quiet. Everything smelled of swamp and sulfur and blood. 

Daveth poked a wolf corpse with the butt of his bow. “So much for darkspawn,” he said. “How are these things so big? These can’t be normal wolves, can they?” 

“Blighted,” Alistair said. “Tainted by darkspawn. Don’t get their blood in your mouths.” 

Daveth made a disgusted noise. “Wasn’t planning on it, mate.” He slung his bow on his back and turned away from the wolf. 

“Blighted blood does strange things to you,” Alistair explained. “Not as dangerous as darkspawn blood, but not something you want near you.” 

Rhea looked at her bloodied hands. She wished for a year’s supply of soap. 

“If it’s so dangerous, then why are we collecting it?” Jory asked. “What would we use it for?” 

“It’s part of the Joining,” Alistair said. “That’s all you need to know.” 

He sheathed his sword and continued down the path. Jory looked at Rhea and Daveth, a scowl darkening his expression. 

“The more I hear of the Joining, the less I like it,” he said. “Darkspawn blood, secrets, no clear answers… This isn’t why I became a recruit.” 

“Why did you?” Daveth asked. 

“Because defeating this Blight is the right thing to do.” Jory said it defensively. 

Rhea rolled her eyes. 

“You don’t need to be a warden to fight the Blight,” Daveth said. “You’re already a knight, you could have been in the king’s army—” 

Jory bristled. 

“So—why join the Wardens?” 

“I’m not obligated to tell you, Daveth,” Jory said sharply and took off down the path to catch up with Alistair. 

“Oh, come on, mate,” Daveth called. “We’re comrades! We’re supposed to be bonding! _This isn’t what Duncan would call working together!”_  

Jory raised a hand and made a rude gesture. 

“Oh, bollocks,” Daveth said. 

Rhea sighed witheringly. “Shut up.” 

“Don’t give me that,” he said. “Can’t be blamed for trying to lighten the mood. What’s the point of being a Grey Warden if you’re going to let everything be dour and sullen all the time?” 

“Stop pushing him.” 

“I can’t, he makes himself too easy a target.” He chuckled—and his laughter died when he looked at her and saw she wasn’t smiling. 

“It wouldn’t hurt for you to be dour and sullen once in a while,” Rhea said bitingly. 

Daveth stopped walking. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Have you ever thought that this flippant façade of yours goes a little too far?” Rhea said. “Not everything is a joke, Daveth. Look where we are. Look at what we’re doing. _Look at what brought us here._ Then tell me if it’s funny.” 

She brushed past him, but he caught her arm. “You don’t get to tell me off,” he said. “You don’t get to dictate how I choose to behave. If making light of serious matters if how I get through my day, then that’s _my_ decision. But I can’t be like you, Rhea. No matter how bad things get, I won’t let myself drown.” 

“You’re a fool.” 

“No. I think you’ve got that covered all on your own.” 

Rhea hissed and pulled her arm free. She stormed down the path, hands curled into fists. 

“If you’ve ever wondered why it never works out between us,” Daveth called, _“this is why!”_  

“Oh, Maker take you!” she shouted over her shoulder. 

She caught up with Alistair and Jory, brushing off Alistair’s inquiring look and took the lead, climbing up a hill. She wasn’t a tracker, she wasn’t good in the wilderness, all she knew was that she had to move forwards, put distance between her and Daveth. She couldn’t look at him right now. She was angry and he was the easiest target for that anger. 

She felt guilty for that. He didn’t deserve it. 

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up—_

“Rhea, wait.” 

Alistair touched her shoulder. He unsheathed her sword, glancing about the wilds, clearly on edge. He nodded to Jory, who hefted his heavy greatsword, standing back-to-back with Alistair. 

“What is it?” Rhea breathed. 

“They’re here,” he said. 

Cold clenched her heart and her mouth went dry. 

Rhea swallowed with difficulty and pulled her daggers free. “Where?” 

“All around.” 

“Where’s Daveth?” Jory asked, looking from one tangled tree to the next. 

“Shit,” Rhea said. 

She dashed back down the path and heard Alistair calling her name, but she ignored him. She heard rustling in the trees, an eerie laughter, an unnatural cackle— 

And then something hit her in the back. 

Pain flared down her spine and she pitched forwards, palms scraping through the mud as she slid on her stomach. She choked, spitting, and rolled over. A gruesome creature stood before her, its face all teeth and eyes and rotting flesh. It leered at her, hissing in some foreign language that had no words, and raised a twisted sword. Its blade was blackened and the creature ran a thick tongue along its edge as it stared at her, yellow eyes sharp and cruel. 

“DARKSPAWN!”

Rhea heard Alistair’s cry, but she couldn’t see him. The creature slashed its sword at her side and she rolled on instinct, mud flying in every direction. The sword came up and went down again, and she dodged, rolling back the other way. It missed her by inches, slamming into the ground. The monster—the darkspawn—roared in anger, pulling at the sword hilt, trying to get it out of the mud. Rhea dragged herself to her feet and, without thinking about it, leapt at the darkspawn, daggers sinking into its back. Her weight pushed it forwards and it toppled into the sludge, taking Rhea down with it, hanging onto her daggers. It hissed a final breath and stopped moving. 

She pulled her daggers free and got to her feet, turning around to see a nightmare. 

A horde of darkspawn swarmed Alistair and Jory, writhing out of the trees like cockroaches. Alistair ducked, catching a blow on his shield, then beheaded the monster attacking him with a vicious strike. Black blood flew and the head rolled down the slope. Jory clashed with a large darkspawn, easily seven feet tall, catching its hammer with his greatsword. He grunted in pain as he pushed against his foe, desperately trying to get the upper hand. 

There was no sign of Daveth. 

“Dav?” Rhea shouted. _“Dav?!”_  

“Go!” Alistair yelled. “Find him! We’ll keep them busy—agh!” 

A darkspawn stabbed at his side, its weapon bouncing off Alistair’s armour. He kicked it, then plunged his sword into its throat. He pulled his blade free and swung around to face Rhea. 

_“Go!”_ he shouted. “Duncan told you to watch each other’s backs— _go!”_  

Rhea took flight, cantering down the path. The darkspawn were concentrated on Alistair and Jory—did they always go for the biggest fighters? Did they equate size with strength?—and ignored her. She crested a hill, gaining vantage, and scanned the valley below for any signs of Daveth. 

She found him at the foot of the hill, standing his ground, firing arrows as fast as he could. He was an excellent shot—she watched as one darkspawn fell to the ground with an arrow in its eye, another with one caught in its throat. Daveth whooped with triumphant laughter and let another arrow fly, up towards a darkspawn standing on a grassy knoll above him. 

The arrow hit an invisible barrier and exploded into a shower of splinters. 

Daveth burst into flames. 

Rhea screamed, but she could not drown out his own. His agonized shrieks echoed through the wilds and he sunk to his knees, flame curling around every inch of his body. He was little more than an orange-red glow, acrid smoke and sparks flying from him in every direction. Rhea’s eyes darted from Daveth to the darkspawn on the knoll and somehow, she realized that _it_ was responsible for the fire.

Rhea had met very few mages in her life. The first had been a chance encounter in the back alleys of Denerim, a young man with sandy-blonde hair and an affection for cats. He had escaped the Circle and planned to take a ship north, to Antiva or Rivain or Tevinter. He promised to show her magic, but the Templars had caught him before he had the chance. She didn’t know what happened to him after that.   

And then there were the Circle mages of the king’s army, those who had been granted permission to aid in defeating the Blight. She had spoken with their leader—or at least, who she thought was their leader. Some woman named Wynne who dressed in red and spoke as if she held the secrets of all of Thedas. 

And, of course, she had heard whispers of blood mages and maleficar, who had the power to set men ablaze, scramble their insides and bewitch their minds. Rhea had never seen such things, but she believed them to be possible. Even so, it had never, _ever_ occurred to her that if there were mages among humans and elves, then there, too, could be mages among the darkspawn.

The darkspawn hadn’t seen her yet. It was far too invested in torturing Daveth with its spell, playing with him before it killed him, like a cat with a mouse. She ducked into the underbrush, forcing herself through heavy vines and bushes as she crept towards the darkspawn mage. Thorns tore at her armour and scratched her face and hands. She felt a line of blood well up on her cheek, but she brushed it away. A problem for later. 

She approached the darkspawn mage from behind—slowly, slowly, her footfalls light as feathers. When she was in striking distance, she tensed, muscles aching, and sprang forwards. 

Her foot shot out and she levelled a kick at the back of the darkspawn’s knees. It yelped as it keeled over. Rhea followed up, leaping on its back, stabbing her a blade into its neck. Her blow glanced off its armour. The darkspawn shrieked, calling for the others, but none came. It hissed, bucking, but she clung on and raised her second dagger. There was a gap between its helmet and its chest plate—she could see its ragged green-grey skin poking through. She fought to stay on its back, locking her legs around it as it tried to throw her off. It hissed and spat and raised a clawed hand, violet light sparking at its fingertips. 

Rhea yelled and yanked her dagger across the base of its neck, cutting deep. Black blood burst forth in a frothy cascade, covering her hands, soaking her gloves. Its acrid smell made her want to retch. She let go of the darkspawn mage and kicked its corpse away, her stomach heaving. 

She looked down into the valley and saw Daveth on the ground. She rushed down the knoll, slipping on the muddied grass, and tripped, stumbling to a halt at his side. She sank to her knees, grabbing his hand. He was grey, covered in ash, and smelled of smoke. His eyes were closed. 

She prodded at him, a hand cupping his cheek, desperately searching for signs of life.   

“Dav—no, please—Dav—” 

His eyes fluttered open. “Oh,” he choked. “So you _do_ care.” 

She wailed and fell forwards, pressing her forehead against his. “Don’t you _dare_ stay behind ever again—do you hear me?”

Daveth coughed. “Yeah. I think I learned my lesson.” He sighed, eyes glancing over her. “You really stink, Rey. And what’s that on your face?” 

“Darkspawn blood.” 

“Ugh, it’s _everywhere.”_  

“Didn’t anyone tell you? Being a Grey Warden is a pretty messy business.” 

He chuckled, but his laughter was cut short. His breath came in wheezing gasps. “Thanks for saving me.” 

“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I’ve got your back.” 

Alistair and Jory found them not long after. They patched Daveth up as best they could, using the bandages and healing potions Alistair had brought with him. Daveth was still winded from the spell, but he insisted that he was well enough to continue. It had been a close call, nothing more. 

“On the bright side,” Daveth said, “at least there’s plenty of blood to go around.” 

They proceeded with the messy business of gathering up darkspawn bodies and squeezing their blood into three vials. It was hot and ugly work, and smelled _terrible._  

“What was that thing?” Rhea asked as they filled the last vial. She gestured to the corpse of the darkspawn mage. 

“Genlock emissary,” Alistair said. “Nasty things, very dangerous spellcasters. It’s usually inadvisable to take on one alone… but I see you had no problem with that.” 

Rhea shrugged. “I surprised it.” 

Alistair frowned, worry creasing his brow. He paused, using the excuse of filling the vial to explain his silence. “Duncan will be impressed,” he said finally, and handed the vial to Rhea. 

Jory sniffed. “High praise. Or are only little women who barely know their way around a battlefield worthy of your attention?” 

“He’ll be impressed with _all_ of you,” Alistair said quickly. 

“But the most with Tabris.” 

“Jealous, Jory?” Daveth added. “That she killed an _emissary?”_  

“Of course not,” Jory said. “Any of us could kill an emissary, she just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Next time that might be you or I. Though I doubt you would survive catching on fire twice.” 

Daveth chuckled. “See, mate? I knew you had a sense of humour in there somewhere.” 

Jory frowned. “That wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.” 

“You win some, you lose some.”

_“Anyway,”_ Alistair interrupted, more forcefully than usual. An obvious attempt to reassert himself. “Can we return to the task at hand, please? We still have to find those scrolls.” 

_“You_ have to find the scrolls,” Jory said. “That was your task.” 

Alistair reddened. “And it is part of _your_ initiation to help me.” 

“Why you?” Jory countered. “I’ve heard the talk—you were recruited six months ago, you’re barely trained, you’re just as new to this as we are. Why would Duncan send us out here to face monsters alone with a Warden who doesn’t even know how to lead?” 

“Because the other Wardens have work to do,” Alistair said angrily. “And no—you are not privy to that information. Not until the Joining.”

“Oh yes, the mysterious _Joining._ Tell me, why keep it secret? If it’s so important, why hide what it is? What secrets do the Wardens not want us to know, Alistair? _”_

Alistair’s jaw clenched. “I can’t say.”

“I have a wife,” Jory said, nostrils flaring. “I have a _child._ For their sakes, I need to know—”

“Jory!” Rhea snapped. “Enough. Now is not the time.”

Jory fell silent, but a scowl still darkened his face. 

Alistair pushed past him. “Come on,” he said. “We have work to do. So we go forwards. _Together.”_ He marched down the path, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a string of curses. 

Daveth glanced at Rhea and let out a cautious, little laugh. “Who knew the wilds would be so much fun?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I play the Korcari Wilds section, I get Daveth killed. Without fail. No matter how I set up my tactics.


	4. Duty

As it turned out, a Genlock emissary setting Daveth on fire was the least of their problems. There were many more darkspawn in the wilds than the first band of genlocks. The further they went, the more Rhea felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Darkspawn didn’t wander through the woods and come across their party by accident. They watched. They waited. They haunted the trees and then, without warning, they struck. 

It was like they were hunting them.   

By the time they reached the ancient outpost, Rhea had more cuts and bruises and minor injuries than she could count. She was splattered with blood and grime, every inch of her was caked with sweat and her muscles hurt. She wanted nothing more than to get this whole ordeal over with. 

Jory continued to push against Alistair’s leadership. Perhaps it was because he was older than the rest of them, already a seasoned warrior and a knight in his own right. Perhaps he couldn’t bear taking orders from a younger man, one who had already been accepted into the ranks of the Grey Wardens. Admittedly, Alistair wasn’t a _great_ leader, but he was the one they had. Rhea was very tired of his orders being undermined. Babs had taught her to trust whoever took point. If they failed, that failure was square on them. But if you undermined their heist, their plan, then everything was guaranteed to go to shit from the beginning. 

Daveth wasn’t much help. He found the whole thing hysterical and his running commentary came at inappropriate times, riling up Alistair and Jory both. 

In Rhea’s opinion, it was an utter fucking _mess._  

To top it all off, the scrolls weren’t even where they were supposed to be. The chest was, but the contents had been snatched away long before the king’s army had ever arrived in Ostagar. Following _that_ discovery, they were interrupted by a scantily-clad girl (how did she stay warm in this cold with that much skin showing?) with dark hair and yellow eyes and a very strange manner of speech. The girl promptly told them her _mother_ had taken the scrolls. 

Her _mother._  

Rhea was under the impression that only darkspawn lurked in the wilds, but, as it turned out, she was quite wrong. 

The girl’s mother was even stranger, croaking and cawing and speaking in riddles. Alistair and Daveth muttered about the woman being a witch. Rhea didn’t care whether the woman was a mage or not. She just wanted the scrolls. The old woman relinquished them happily and Rhea forcefully marched her companions away from the hut and back into a world that made sense. It wasn’t long before she got them lost, turning them around in circles for hours. 

The girl rescued them, saying she had tracked them from her mother’s hut, though Rhea couldn’t possibly see how. She then led them through the tangled trees, picking her way around the worse parts of the swamp, and back to the camp boundary. 

Then she disappeared. Daveth swore she had turned into a bird and flew away, but Rhea didn’t see it. She had a feeling he was pulling her leg. 

The guards let them in through the gate and, exhausted, blood-splattered, starving and more than a little bitter, they tromped through and dispersed into the camp. Alistair called after them, instructing them to meet him and Duncan on the ruined battlements after sundown, but Rhea was so hungry she barely acknowledged what he was saying. It was barely mid-afternoon, but she felt like an entire week had passed. 

The only bright spot in all this shit was that the air in camp was pleasantly cool. Now that the fog had lifted, burned away by the sun, it no longer felt noxiously heavy. 

Rhea found her way to the kitchen tents and devoured her hot meal in silence, keeping her distance from Daveth and Jory. She lost sight of them soon enough, which was fine by her. She was happy to be alone for the first time that day. 

Finishing her meal, Rhea exited the tent and went to clean herself up. 

No rivers ran through the camp, much to Rhea’s disappointment. She wanted nothing more than to dunk herself in water and scrub her skin raw. But near the infirmary, there was a tent that housed shallow basins of water, cleansed and purified on the hour by the Circle mages. Rhea marched in and found it empty, save for a tall human woman with dark hair. Rhea ignored her and undressed. 

She was standing in her breeches and tunic, goosebumps prickling her arms, her hands plunged into cold water, fingers grasping a coarse cloth when the woman spoke. 

“That’s a lot of blood.” 

Rhea withdrew the cloth and squeezed excess water out of it. “It’s not mine.” 

“I gathered,” the woman said. She stretched her hands above her head, showing off well-defined muscles. She was very tall, at least a half-foot taller than Rhea, perhaps more. A true warrior’s physique. One of the king’s soldiers, then. A noblewoman, probably, who played at being a soldier for such haughty ideals like truth and justice. “Those who go into the wilds seldom come out.” 

Rhea scraped the cloth against her neck. It came away black with darkspawn blood. “Some come out.” 

The woman pulled her hair back and tied it. “You are a Grey Warden.” 

“Not yet.” Rhea plunged the cloth into the basin, swirling it around. She pulled it out, wringing out the excess, and brought it to her cheek. The cold water stung her skin.   

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” the woman scoffed. “You are a Warden recruit. It is well known that only the most promising are considered for their ranks—” 

“Or the most unfavoured,” Rhea interrupted. “The unluckiest. The most desperate. Those who had no other choice.” She pulled the cloth away. Water and blood dripped down her face. “Why? Did you want to join them? Did Duncan deny you?” 

The woman’s lips tightened into an invisible line. “My duty did.” 

“Well, thank the Maker for your duty!” Rhea snapped. “How nice it must be, to know exactly what life demands of you.” 

“No one makes demands of me but myself.” 

“A luxury afforded to you by virtue of your birth.” 

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Who do you think I am, recruit?” 

“A soldier,” Rhea answered. “The king’s man, come to play at blood and guts and glory.” 

The woman barked a laugh. “You are a part of this army now. Perhaps that is the game you’ve also come to play.” 

Rhea plunged her hands back into the water. The surface swirled with black blood, round and round the bowl, like ink undulating in an inkwell. She saw the darkspawn, their razor-sharp teeth, their gnarled hands. Felt their breath on the back of her neck, smelt their stench, heard the roar of the emissary’s fire spell— 

She shook, hands clenching in the water. “There’s no glory in what we face,” she said quietly. “Only evil.” 

_Evil_ fell heavy, swollen, on her tongue. Until today, evil had been many other things. Her step-father when he had arranged her marriage without her permission. Arls and teyrns who only saw her for a pair of pointed ears. The guards who had strung up her mother, laughing as they did so. Kendells and his men when Shianni— 

_No. Not now. NOT NOW._  

She closed her eyes, pushing back the memories. Her teeth raked her bottom lip and she tasted blood. 

Those were everyday evils. The cruelty of humankind, grown out of selfishness and a thirst for control. Evils she was familiar with. 

The darkspawn were evil unbound. There was no reason, no purpose behind their actions save utter destruction. 

The only way to stop them was to kill them.   

“Do you believe this is a true Blight?” the woman asked gravely. 

“Duncan does,” Rhea replied, scrubbing her hands beneath the water. Her fingernails dug into the skin on the back of her hands, tearing at it. “Alistair does. The king does.” 

“But do you?” the woman insisted. 

Rhea’s mouth was dry. She swallowed, hard. “If you had asked me last night, I would have said I didn’t know. But now…” She scoured her hands, slopping water over the edge of the basin. “There is no denying that the horde that comes for us intends to slaughter us all.” 

The woman nodded gravely. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your honesty.” 

She turned away, retrieving her armour and cloak from a corner of the tent. Rhea scoured the rest of the darkspawn blood from her skin as the woman dressed. She spared her a glance as the woman strapped on her shield and picked up her greatsword, a brutal, efficient weapon that had none of the gilding or fine details that Rhea had spotted on other weapons used by the king’s men. In her plain, unadorned armour, she looked more like a mercenary than a soldier.   

Perhaps Rhea was wrong. 

Perhaps this woman was more than an aristocrat out to add glory to her family name. 

The woman nodded at Rhea as she walked towards the tent flap. “Whatever happens tomorrow, recruit,” she said, “I look forward to fighting beside you.” 

“What’s your name?” Rhea blurted. 

“Cauthrien.” 

“I’m Rhea.” 

Cauthrien smiled. “If you have a need of me, Rhea,” she said, “look for me in the company of Teyrn Loghain. The wardens may have spoken for you, but the teyrn always has need for honest soldiers.” 

_But I’m not a soldier. I’m a…_

She couldn’t say Grey Warden. Not yet.

_I don’t know what I am._

Rhea smiled tightly as Cauthrien left the tent. Once alone, she collapsed to her knees, hands gripping the lip of the basin. She bowed her head, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. 

The water stank of darkspawn. 

She could taste their blood in her mouth. 

She spat, though there wasn’t much saliva there. She felt stained, spoiled, tainted. The darkspawn flooded her mind, their screeches echoing in her ears. She wanted them gone, but they came crawling back to her, stronger, relentless.   

Alistair had said Blighted blood did strange things to those who came in contact with it. But if it was that toxic, that poisonous, _why_ did they collect it? 

She felt nauseous. Overwhelmed. Suffocated. Her head was spinning—in only a few short weeks, her life had been turned upside down. So many changes had come. She felt like she was drowning. 

_Breathe._  

What was the Joining? She was half-way through her initiation. After tonight, she would be a Grey Warden—if she passed this final test. 

_Breathe._  

If it even was a test. 

_Breathe._

What would Shianni think? What would Soris say? Would they both be telling her to run—far, far away—before she was hurt further? 

_Breathe._

And her mother. Adaia. Duncan had known her—he told her so when he visited the alienage, before the wedding. Before everything had gone wrong. He said she would have made a fine Warden. But she had refused. Would Adaia be proud her daughter now walked the path she had declined? Or would she be furious that Rhea had allowed herself to be forced into this unwanted position in the first place? 

Rhea closed her eyes, grinding her teeth together. _Fuck Duncan. Fuck Alistair. Fuck—this—shit._  

The Wardens would be her purpose in life now. No more climbing the Vhenadahl at night to watch the stars, no more laughing with her cousins. No more drinking at the Pearl, no more sitting at the end of a dock, staring off into the Amaranthine Ocean and feeling like she was sitting at the edge of the world. She loved Denerim in the same breath that she hated all that it stood for, and it wasn’t until now that she felt well and truly homesick. 

Her gut curled, nausea hitting her. She swayed, fingers scraping against the cold stone of the basin, choking down vomit. 

She could never go back. She would never walk those same streets, sleep in her bed, wake up to the sound and smell of her step-father cooking the day’s meal. She would never listen to Soris’ bad jokes or hear Shianni’s laughter again.   

Her life was consumed by unsurmountable evil. That was her purpose, whether she accepted it or not—to be a weapon, to protect all of Ferelden’s citizens without bias, the Shiannis and the Babs and the fucking Kendells all equally, lest they all be killed and devoured by darkspawn. And she would do this until her last breath. 

That was her lot now. 

Rhea stood, hands still gripping the edge of the basin. She stared at the water, black with darkspawn blood. Unclean. Tainted. 

Like her. 

She seized the basin and tipped it, dumping the filthy water out in a rush. It soaked into the ground, seeping away without a trace.    


	5. Brothers and Sisters in Arms

It was sunny when Rhea left the tent. 

The clouds had parted, bathing everything in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun. Rhea saw blue sky for the first time since leaving Denerim, which felt like some kind of Maker-granted miracle. Uncertain of where to go or what to do until evening, she prowled the camp and fell into an old habit—silently, unobtrusively observing those around her. 

She watched the Circle mages practice their spells, the air shimmering and whispering around them. They were focused and stoic, never breaking their concentration, never speaking to one another. At first, Rhea wondered if their impassive behaviour was due to their spellcasting—she knew nothing about magic, but she couldn’t imagine it was easy—but as she watched, she knew that was not the case. There was something forced about their movements, like a performance rehearsed too many times. One moment, a mage would glance at another—a tilt of the head, a wink, a barely perceptible upturn in the lips—and the next it would be gone. 

There was a deep sense of familiarity in those small gestures. Whoever these mages were, they had been colleagues, friends, or something more for a very long time—long enough that whole thoughts could be communicated with the smallest of signs. Small enough that the templars that guarded them did not notice. 

Rhea frowned. The templars did not look like the rest of the soldiers in the king’s camp. Their polished armour shone brightly in the sun, clean and unsullied, as if they were at a Chantry and not in the middle of a Maker-forsaken forest. Clearly they had not gone into the wilds. They had not fought darkspawn. Their duty was to stay here, at camp, protecting the mages… 

Was it protecting or guarding? 

The more she watched, the more unsettled she became. Replace the templar armour with that of the city watch and these men looked exactly like the guards posted outside the alienage. 

Rhea swallowed the hard lump in her throat and stalked away. 

She crossed the camp, walking by the haphazard cages set up as a makeshift prison, watched over by a single, bored soldier. She spoke to the prisoner there—a deserter—sneaking him extra food and water when his guard wasn’t looking. She passed the king’s tent and thought she heard a heated argument from inside, but the king’s men chased her away before she could pick out what was said. She watched the Ash Warriors train their mabari hounds, the dogs’ loud barks hurting her ears, their snarling jaws reminding her far too much of the Blighted wolves. She visited the infirmary and saw soldiers who had gone mad from their expeditions—whether it was from what they witnessed when they fought darkspawn or from swallowing Blighted blood, the healers were not sure. 

Rhea found a concealed spot in the corner of camp, leaning against a ruined pillar in a clump of trees. She folded her arms and closed her eyes, apprehension gnawing away at her. Regardless of were she went in camp, the tension was palpable, torn between the euphoria of glory and the despair of terror. No one knew what was to come. They whispered about the coming battle, fantasizing about the best in the same breath they imagined the worst. 

And she, to her horror, did too. Now she had fought darkspawn, the impending battle did not seem hopeless. She had fought off one of their mages—what had Alistair called it? An emissary?—and lived. Where trained soldiers had failed, she had succeeded. That gave her hope for survival. 

But she could very well die, torn to shreds by creatures thirsting for her blood and flesh. Evil could not be reasoned with. She would have to kill them before they killed her. 

The thrum of a lute rang in her ears. She heard a familiar voice, a familiar laugh. 

Rhea opened her eyes and peered through the trees.   

Daveth sat by an open fire, surrounded by an eclectic group of humans, elves and dwarves, all dressed in the same mercenary armour. The healers had cleaned him up after they returned, clearing up any damage left from the genlock emissary’s fire spell. He played, he sang, he drank. Delight shone in his eyes and, after he said something Rhea couldn’t hear, one of the soldiers—a large man with war paint on his face—roared with laughter and clapped him on the back. 

 _So that’s where you ended up…_  

Maybe they hadn’t changed as much as she thought. Daveth still surrounded himself with people, seeking camaraderie to push away the darkness. And Rhea still hid in the shadows, alone. 

Rhea watched from the trees, arms pressed tightly into her chest. A blonde human woman in blue and silver armour flashed him a smile, laughing at his joke. Rhea grit her teeth, feeling the unwanted sting of envy. Daveth had found a place here. His life had been torn up just as much as hers, and yet he didn’t let his past rule him. He was blazing ahead, forging a new life—where he could be someone other than a scrawny boy who grew up to be a thief and a liar and cutpurse because he had no other choice. 

It was admirable. 

If only she could do the same. 

Rhea pushed through the trees, drawing towards the fire. Daveth saw her approach, but he didn’t call out to her. He didn’t say anything, didn’t nod—but he did catch her eye. He grinned and continued to play, his voice a little stronger, a little more colourful. 

The woman glanced at Rhea and waved, smiling so that her dimples showed. “You’re that other Grey Warden recruit, aren’t you?” she said. “Daveth’s told us about you.” 

The lute sung sourly as Daveth plucked a wrong chord. He laughed shakily. “Just mentioned in passing, really. Nothing important—” 

“Did you really take out a darkspawn mage?” the warrior asked. 

“Yes,” Rhea said. 

The warrior let out a long whistle. He bowed his head and saluted in respect. 

Rhea shot a narrow look at Daveth, who grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “I may have mentioned a few things,” he said. 

Rhea rolled her eyes. 

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” the woman said. “First time into the wilds and _that_ shows up—” 

“It was fine,” Rhea said. 

“You’ve got a heart of steel, then,” the woman said. “I nearly pissed myself when I saw my first darkspawn and it was only an archer. Emissaries are… They’re something else.” 

Rhea looked at her, finally registering the insignia on the woman’s armour. The silver griffin. 

A Grey Warden.

Rhea glanced at the small group and saw they were _all_ Grey Wardens. 

The blonde woman grinned as she noted the recognition in Rhea’s eyes. “Name’s Sarya,” she said. “But shhh—” She put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone. Duncan’ll go mad if he knew we were talking to you.” 

“Why’s that?” Rhea asked. “Is talking forbidden in the Grey Wardens? Daveth won’t do so well if that’s the case.” 

“Hey!” Daveth interjected. 

“In general it’s a good idea to keep recruits separate until after initiation,” a dark-haired woman said. She tucked her hair behind her pointed ears, revealing her elven heritage. “You aren’t Grey Wardens yet—” 

“But they will be,” the warrior said. “We need them. Now, more than ever.” 

“And you know what will be the judge of that, Cassian,” the woman said, shooting him a dark look. 

“Avira,” Sarya said, the hint of a warning in her voice. She looked at Rhea and shifted over, patting a spot next to her on the bench. “Here, Rhea,” she said. “Sit. Have a drink.” 

Rhea sat. The warrior—Cassian—handed her a flagon. She took it and sipped, mulled wine going down smoothly, warming her stomach, chasing away her ever-present numbness. 

Daveth strummed his lute, picking away at an improvised melody. 

“So, tell me, Rhea,” Sarya said, turning her own flagon in her hands, “where are you from?” 

“Denerim.” 

“Fancy!” Sarya took a drink. “I’ve never been. I don’t think any of us have. I’m from Highever, same as Duncan. Avira’s from Amaranthine. Thea over there—” She pointed to a red-haired dwarf who lounged on the ground, occasionally throwing kindling on the fire, “—is from Redcliffe. Nadine and Edmund—” Two wardens sitting next to Avira raised their hands in welcome, “—are mages from Kinloch Hold. And Cassian’s from Val Royeaux, but don’t tell anyone he’s Orlesian or he’ll twist your arm off.” 

“I haven’t worked this hard to hide the accent for nothing,” Cassian grunted. “Don’t go spoiling my secrets, Sar.” 

“Too late,” Sarya said. “I’m nosy. I spoil everything.” 

Cassian scowled. “That’s going to get you into trouble some day.” 

“I hope that’s a promise, Cass,” Sarya shot back. 

 _Oh, dear Maker,_ Rhea thought. _She’s the female version of Daveth._  

“What’s Denerim like?” Thea asked, warming her hands over the fire. 

“Loud,” Rhea said. 

“She left out ‘charmingly disgusting,’” Daveth said, earning a snort of laughter from Sarya. “It’s filthy and it stinks, but being the centre of Ferelden social grace counts for something.” 

Thea nodded. “Redcliffe Village is like that, too. Loud, I mean. Especially when Murdock and Owen start yelling at each other at the crack of dawn. Oh, _and_ everything smells like dogs or horses—” 

“I don’t think she means it’s loud and smelly like that, Thea,” Avira said. “Denerim is a lot larger than Redcliffe.” 

Thea rolled her eyes. “Redcliffe isn’t small. It’s the centre of trade between Denerim and Orzammar—” 

“Then why’s it called a village?” Avira said. 

Thea chewed the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know.” 

“Villages are small, cities are big,” Avira continued. “Therefore, Redcliffe isn’t big.” 

Thea took a stubborn swig of her drink. “Good grief, I didn’t realize semantics were that important to you, Avi.” 

“I’d like to see Denerim some day,” Nadine said. “Never been to a city.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Edmund said, shaking his head. “Too many walls. I’d feel locked up.” 

Nadine raised an eyebrow. “Really? This from the boy who could barely take two steps outside the Circle after Duncan recruited him because he was terrified of the sky?” 

Edmund shrugged. “It’s not a problem now. _Walls_ , on the other hand… those are a problem.” 

“Very pesky things, walls,” Daveth said. “Always getting in the way.” 

“How long have you been wardens?” Rhea asked. 

Cassian took a drink. “Feels like forever…” 

“Feels like I was recruited yesterday,” Avira said. 

“A year or two, give or take, for most of us,” Sarya answered. “Five for me.” She swished her drink around in her flagon. “All for different reasons. Sometimes you run afoul of darkspawn in the wild and the Wardens are your only option. Sometimes you’re looking for an escape. Whatever the reason, we all found our way here. It wasn’t until last year that Duncan began recruiting in earnest. He could tell a Blight was coming, even then, I think.” She took a drink. “Fereldan has been without an Order for such a long time. It’s only been twenty years since Maric let us back in. It’s impressive we’ve been able to rebuild it this far.” 

“And a good thing, too,” Cassian said darkly. He glanced over his shoulder, looking deep into the forest beyond the camp boundaries. “You feel them out there, can’t you?” 

Avira scowled. “Like a mass of wriggling insects under a rock.” 

“We’ll squish them,” Cassian said. “We’re very good at that sort of thing.” 

 _“You’re_ very good at that sort of thing,” Sarya corrected, gesturing to the giant hammer strapped to his back. 

Nadine flexed a hand, a light glowing in her palm. “Or I could set them on fire.” 

“Fire’s always good,” Thea chuckled. She threw more wood kindling on the fire. The dry wood cracked and sparked as it was set aflame.  

“You’re very violent,” Rhea observed, sipping her wine. 

“It’s not intentional, I assure you,” Sarya said. “It’s part of the job.” 

“Hey, Avi,” Thea said, “you should tell them about the time you took down _three_ ogres at the same time with a crossbow and a couple of daggers—” 

Avira’s brow darkened. “Thea, we’ve been over this. _One,_ it wasn’t a crossbow, it was two ballistae I spent all afternoon meticulously setting it go off at the right time. And _two_ , it wasn’t a couple of daggers, it was—” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Thea interrupted. “My version is much more heroic.” 

“I spent _weeks_ on that trap.” 

“Traps aren’t heroic, Avi, they’re clever. There’s a difference. I like heroism a lot more, makes a better story.” 

Avira sighed witheringly and disappeared into her flagon. 

The wardens chortled, their laughter laced with familiarity and long-time companionship. Rhea caught Daveth’s eye. She wondered if he felt like he was intruding on their friendships as much as she did. While it was nice to be welcomed so warmly by the wardens, it was difficult not to be envious of their comfortable familiarity. They reminded her of their old crew. 

They were a little _too_ much like their old crew.

“I’m curious, Sarya,” Daveth said. “If there are wardens with seniority here in camp, why is Alistair the one leading our initiation?” 

The laughter faded away. 

“He’s the newest Warden,” Sarya said carefully. “Duncan only recruited him six months ago. I suppose you could say it’s tradition for the newest member to initiate the next recruits, but…” She shrugged. “Duncan’s fond of him. Thinks he needs the added responsibility. Personally, I don’t agree.” 

Rhea drummed her fingers against her flagon. “Why?” 

Sarya sighed heavily. “He’s afraid of leadership. I appreciate what Duncan has done for him, but a Blight is hardly the time to teach life lessons. We need our best people in the places that play to their strength. To be honest, I’m surprised all four of you made it out of there alive today. Someone must have been watching out for you.” 

“Yeah,” Daveth said. “You’re looking at her.” 

The wardens turned to Rhea. 

“I didn’t do anything.” 

“You killed an emissary,” Avira said. 

“You fulfilled your mission,” Cassian added. 

“You kept your comrades alive,” Sarya said. “I think, Rhea Tabris, the wardens will be lucky to have you. And that’s something, I can drink to.” 

“Cheers,” Thea said, raising her mug. 

The wardens drank. Rhea sat still, swirling the dregs of wine in her flagon. She set it down and swiftly got to her feet. “Thank you,” she said bluntly. “I mean it. I…” 

Nadine touched her arm. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said softly. “We’ve been where you are.” 

Rhea smiled tightly and nodded. “It was good to meet you. Maybe I will see you—after the initiation.” 

The smiles faded from their faces. 

“Yeah,” Sarya said. “After.” 

Rhea turned and walked away, leaving the warmth of fire and friendship behind her. She heard footsteps and a hand touched her shoulder, spinning her around. 

“Hey,” Daveth said. “Are you all right?” 

“Do I not look all right?” Rhea said and continued walking. 

“Rey—hey—don’t do that.” He jogged to keep up with her as she stalked down the path. “Don’t turn the question around on me, I’m being serious.” 

“I’m fine, I’m just…” Rhea clenched her hands into fists. “There’re just too many things happening right now, Dav!” She exhaled sharply and looked away. “You should go back. They like you. Go play your lute, spend time with them. They’ll be your comrades soon enough.” 

“And yours, too,” he said. “Look, if I go back, I’ll drink all of their wine and what kind of impression will that make if I show up to this initiation thing stone-cold drunk? I’ve picked Duncan’s pocket, but making a mess of a special Warden ceremony is a hard line to cross, I think.” 

A smile tugged at the edge of Rhea’s mouth. “All right,” she said. “If you insist.”   

They walked down the path, making their way back across camp. “This place is good for you, Dav,” Rhea said after a while. 

“Oh?” Daveth raised an eyebrow. “Thanks, I guess. Something I realized after talking to Sarya and the others—no one knows me. There’s happiness in anonymity and that’s a Grey Warden specialty. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you did before. You’re a Grey Warden and that’s what matters. It’s a freeing, don’t you think?” 

“It’s a little different for me,” Rhea said, tugging on a pointed ear. 

Daveth sighed. “Come on, Rhea, it’s not that bad. It’s loads better than Denerim, at any rate. There are plenty of elves in the army—” 

“Yes! Most of them are servants or messengers and get thrashed when they don’t finish things on time,” Rhea said, thinking back to the red-haired elf and his misplaced sword. 

“There are elves in the Grey Wardens,” Daveth said. “You met Avira.” 

“One elf.” 

“She’s not the only one. Though she’s certainly just as grumpy as you are. Maybe it’s a requirement. All elven Grey Wardens must be irritable, cranky, negative types.” 

“If that’s the case, then all human Wardens must be fast-talking idiots who think they’re a lot wittier and funnier than they actually are,” Rhea shot back. 

Daveth winced. “Oooh—ouch.” 

“It’s okay,” she said. “I still think you’re funny. Most of the time.” 

He chuckled. “Delightful.” 

Rhea smiled. A little thing—but it felt like her first genuine smile since before the wedding. Before Kendells. 

They passed the statue of Andraste near the centre of camp, observing a Revered Mother who spoke the Chant of Light over a group of soldiers kneeling in a line, heads bowed. Her voice rung out, clear and strong like a bell. 

Daveth sighed heavily as he watched, laughter fading from his face. “Should we join them?” he asked solemnly. 

Rhea listened to the prayer, the Revered Mother’s voice ringing in her ears. 

 _“Though I am flesh, Your Light is ever present. And those I have called, they remember, and they shall endure—”_  

She watched the soldiers, frozen as they were, some trembling even as they reached out for what they believed would give them solace in the face of their terror. Rhea couldn’t stand with them. She wasn’t in the king’s army, she wasn’t their comrade. She and Daveth were in a limbo, neither Grey Wardens nor soldiers, yet not civilians either. 

“No,” Rhea said finally. “Those prayers aren’t for us.” 

They wound their way back around camp. The sun was beginning to set, the sky turning a dusky violet, pink and golden light reflecting off thin streaks of cloud. As they entered an unused wooded area, Rhea found herself on the same path that led to the broken tower where she and Daveth had slept together the night before. Her mouth went dry and her gut clenched, and she tried not to think about it. 

Him.

Them. 

How much she wanted him, how much she wanted the touch of his hands, the taste of his lips, the feel of him on her, in her, everywhere. But it was the same old story. There was never a good time for them. When they had started this thing between them, they were youths barely into adulthood, rivals on a thieving crew. It hadn’t been a good time then. It wasn’t a good time now. There was never a good time. 

Why did she always let things get so messy when Dav was involved? 

Why her? Why _him?_  

“There can be a place for you here if you want it, you know,” Daveth said. “You don’t have to push everything away. Things have changed. Your life has changed, and it will change again a hundred times before it is over. Resisting that is going to hurt you more than it will help.” 

His words stung. “Are you trying to give me a lecture, Dav?” Rhea said. “You?” 

“Not intentionally,” he said. “But it is what I think. Take it or leave it, it’s an honest opinion from someone who cares about you.” 

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“And,” he continued, “I think that’s what your family would want.” 

His words hit her like a punch to the gut. “You don’t know what my family wants,” she snapped as they walked further into the shadow of the trees. It was very quiet here, this far from the centre of camp. “You don’t know anything about them.” 

“Only what you’ve told me,” Daveth said. “And I can’t believe for a minute that Soris and Shianni or even your step-father would want you rotting away in some dungeon instead of joining the Grey Wardens, not after what you went through for them. And I know your mother would say the same.” 

Why did he have to mention her mother? 

A memory came to her unbidden, one she had locked away long ago. Adaia walking towards the city watch, proclaiming her guilt, bidding them to take her as Rhea screamed at her not to— 

 _Damn it—damn it—DAMN IT!_  

Rhea stepped away. “You _don’t_ know _.”_  

“I knew Adaia, Rey,” he said. “She was a survivor, just like you. Up until the very end—” 

She turned abruptly, moving away. “I’m not listening to this—” 

He seized her hand, his grip warm and coarse and familiar. “She would want you to _live,_ Rey. And not just meaning that your heart gets to keep beating and you have air in your lungs. She would want you to have a good life. To have friends, family, comrades. She would want you to be happy.” 

“I don’t know how to do that,” Rhea whispered. 

Daveth pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “And I don’t know how to help,” he said. “But I wish I knew.” 

Rhea pressed herself into his embrace, burying her face in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, eyes prickling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Hey. Look at me. Rhea?—Look at me.” 

She looked at him, meeting his eyes. Those warm, brown eyes she was so familiar with. She gripped his arms, steadying herself. “Dav,” she began. 

“It’s all right,” he said softly. “We don’t have to talk about your mother—" 

She shook her head. “I think you’re right about her. What she would have wanted. I just didn’t want to listen.” 

“I shouldn’t have mentioned her,” Daveth said. “What’s in the past should stay there. We’re not the people we were in Denerim. We shouldn’t be haunted by the same ghosts.” 

 _But here’s the problem, Dav. As long as I’m with you I can_ never _forget the past._  

The words rested on the tip of her tongue, but Rhea couldn’t get them out. They choked her, broke her. To give up the past, she would have to give up him. And she couldn’t do that. Not when he was the only source of comfort and familiarity in her terribly small, broken world of soldiers and darkspawn. 

“The sun’s going down, Dav,” Rhea said, pressing her hands into his broad back. “Duncan wants us on the battlements—” 

“The sun’s not down yet.” Daveth brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered on her face. 

“Dav…” 

“There’s still time,” he murmured. “We don’t have to go yet.” 

Time to forget. Time to let go. Time to _be._  

Rhea pressed up on her toes and kissed him, hands snaking behind his neck. She pulled him in, her body pushed against his, his lips soft and warm against hers. She moved backwards, further away from the path, drawing him with her into the grove of trees. She bumped up against a ruined pillar. 

Daveth’s teeth raked across her lower lip. In his intensity, he pushed her back into the pillar. Her hands dropped, splaying against the cold stone. She breathed sharply as pain pricked her lips, still sore from the night before.     

That felt like days ago now. Weeks. _Years._  

How much could happen in a single day? 

“Sore?” he asked. 

“A little.”

He grinned. “Yeah, well… Blame it on enthusiasm.” He paused, panic suddenly flaring in his eyes. “Unless it’s not from last night and rather from the fight this morning. If it is, forget everything I said and call me an idiot—” 

Rhea laughed. “You’re not an idiot,” she said. “And I don’t mind your enthusiasm.” 

Daveth exhaled. “Well, that’s a relief.” He kissed her, softer this time, pressing her gently against the pillar. 

“I’m surprised you aren’t howling in pain right now,” Rhea murmured against his lips as she locked her hands around his neck. 

“Why?” 

She pulled away, frowning. “You got blown up with a _fireball_.” 

“Oh yeah, that was today, wasn’t it?” Daveth chuckled and shrugged. “Healers fixed me up good. Maker, it’s handy having mages around, but magical healing is _such_ a strange thing—” 

Rhea cut him off with a kiss. “I’m just glad they were around,” she said. “I don’t think I could handle it if you died today.” She slipped her hand into his. “Come on.” 

She led him through the grove, up the stone path and into their broken tower. Rhea let go of his hand and investigated the remnants of her dead fire, nudging the coals with a boot. The temperature was dropping quickly. She could probably get it going again if she could find firewood— 

“Oh, sweet Maker,” Daveth breathed. “Would you look at that.” 

He stood a little way away beyond the tower on a rampart that jutted out into the valley. Rhea walked over to join him, her jaw dropping as she saw what he was looking at. 

A spectacular sunset painted the horizon. Fiery oranges and reds streaked across the sky, turning the edges of the clouds pink and violet. The sun blazed, hot and striking, as it sunk beneath the treeline, bathing the valley in its golden light. Far up in the sky, a few shining stars had appeared in the encroaching darkness of night. The woods below stretched out forever, a sea of green and black, the ruins of ancient Tevinter spires poking through the darkness like white spears, shimmering in the setting sun. 

“That’s not something you see in Denerim,” Daveth said. 

“Not at all,” Rhea agreed. 

“Shit,” Daveth said. “Who knew Ferelden was so pretty?” 

Rhea rested her head against his shoulder. “We do.” 

Daveth stared at her, a hundred complicated emotions crossing his face, then he pulled her to him, hands pressed against her face, and kissed her fiercely. The wind tore across the ramparts, pulling Rhea’s long hair free, flying back and around her shoulders with abandon. She kissed him back, deeper, more intimately than ever before, her heart thundering in her chest.   

Something within her had changed. 

The night before had been about chasing away her numbness, replacing it with feeling, _any_ feeling. If it hadn’t been Daveth, it would have been someone else. But he happened to be here. He happened to cross her path. This man she had spent years with, dancing their dance to the tune of _maybe, maybe not._ This man she had pushed away when things became too difficult, when she had chosen her family above him. This man she had come to care for, to whom she had almost said the most dreaded, impossible _fucking_ words in the world— 

 _I love you._  

She loved him. She had for years. She had never been able to admit it. She had lied to herself, saying it didn’t matter, that their relationship was purely physical, to hide the pain of admitting her duty to her family was more important than how much she cared for him. 

Her family was far away now. Whatever duty remained was a distant thought. She belonged to the Grey Wardens. 

And Daveth, by chance, was a Grey Warden with her. 

Maybe the Maker did see fit to smile on his creations now and then. 

Tears streamed from Rhea’s eyes, whether from the wind or her own emotions, she couldn’t tell. She pulled away, arms wrapped around him, and looked up at him, a smile on her lips. “Dav,” she said, “I—” 

“Oh, _of course,”_ an irate voice said behind them. 

Rhea and Daveth spun around to see Jory standing some feet behind them, dressed in full armour with his greatsword strapped to his back. His armour had been cleaned and polished since their sojourn into the Korcari Wilds, scrubbed within an inch of its life to get the darkspawn blood out. 

“Jory!” Daveth said. “Good to see you, mate. You’ve cleaned up nicely. You’re so polished the reflection is hurting my eyes.” 

“Didn’t take you for one concerned with appearances,” Rhea said flatly. “But I guess it is understandable that you would want to make your best impression on the other Wardens when we join them.” 

Jory flushed a vibrant red. “Like it or not, first impressions are crucial if you are to earn your peers’ respect. Not that _that_ is something the likes of you would understand. Clearly, you don’t give a damn what others think of you.” 

“No,” Rhea said. 

“Not at all,” Daveth added. “Don’t give a rat’s ass. Besides, we’ve already given our first impressions. Warden Sarya Rayne was very impressed with us.” 

Jory blinked. “You’ve met more wardens? Already?” 

“Sure,” Daveth said. “More like they met me. And then Rhea came along, so they met her. Where were you? Polishing your armour, I suspect.” 

Jory scowled. “I thought we weren’t supposed to meet other wardens until _after_ our initiation,” he said. 

“Maybe,” Rhea shrugged. “But if that’s a rule, no one told me. Besides, I like breaking a few rules, don’t you?” 

“Of course not,” Jory said, nostrils flaring. “That’s your prerogative. Unsurprisingly of you, Tabris, really, considering that you get along so well with _him.”_  

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Daveth said. “Are you trying to insult my character? You’re not doing a very good job of it. I can give you pointers if you like.” 

“To be honest, I’m surprised at you, Tabris,” Jory said. “Such a level-headed woman getting involved with a man who likes to stick his prick in anything that moves—” 

Rhea’s jaw clenched. 

“Who was it last time, Daveth? An elven messenger, a cook’s assistant—you had Teyrn Loghain’s commander looped around your finger until you pissed her off. Cauthrien, wasn’t it?” 

“Jory, mate,” Daveth said. “You’re asking for a punch.”

“I wouldn’t believe half the things he says, Tabris,” Jory said. “He’s lying. And you’re not the first.”

Rhea felt the flush of anger on her cheeks. “Of course not,” she said. “It’s none my business which women or men he’s been with. I only arrived here yesterday.” 

“You’re setting yourself up for a broken heart.” 

“Can I punch him?” Daveth asked, turning to Rhea. “I would really like to punch him right now. Is that rude? Should Grey Wardens not punch each other?” 

“Ignore him,” Rhea said shortly. “He’s just spoiling for a fight. Not very befitting of a knight, if you ask me.” 

Jory’s jaw clenched. “We’ve stalled long enough,” he said, dropping the subject. “Come. Duncan has requested we meet him on the battlements at sundown.” 

Daveth pointed at the setting sun. “It’s not sundown yet. The sun’s still going down.” 

“Oh, shut _up_ , Daveth!” Jory yelled. “I’ve had enough of your gibes and incessant attempts to be clever, all of which have failed by my account. It does you no credit. You have no sense of honour or respect, and certainly none that is befitting of a Grey Warden—” 

Daveth folded his arms and laughed. “What would you know about actually _being_ a Grey Warden, Ser Jory? They aren’t soldiers. They aren’t king’s men. They are their own order and you, my friend, are not one yet.” 

Jory stiffened, eyes darting to and fro, hands balled into fists, a vein popping in the side of his neck. “Mark my words, Daveth,” he said. “I _will_ be a Grey Warden before this night is through. You, I’m not so sure about.” 

“Look, I don’t know why you’re so mad,” Daveth said, spreading his hands. “We’re all on equal footing, mate, you, me and Rhea. This isn’t a competition.” 

Jory laughed bitterly. “You’re a thief and a braggart. Tabris is an elf and thief and a murderer, if I am to understand correctly. I am a knight of Redcliffe. We are not on ‘equal footing’, or however you wish to state it.” 

Rhea’s eyes flashed dangerously. “A murderer, you say, Jory?” she said, her voice stone cold. 

“Yes,” he said flatly. “I’ve heard the talk. I know you murdered Vaughan Kendells. You were overheard outright _bragging_ about it—” 

Rhea punched Jory in the nose. 

She felt the cartilage tear, the bone shatter. Jory howled in pain, stumbling backwards, clutching both hands to his nose. Rhea withdrew her fist, her knuckles covered in his blood. 

“I would _never_ brag about killing that sick son of a bitch,” she hissed. “I don’t enjoy killing people. But no matter how many times I revisit that scene, it always ends the same way. Kendells kidnapped me from my wedding. He sexually harassed me, put me in chains, threw me in a dungeon. He would have raped me if I hadn’t escaped. He raped my cousin. He _murdered_ my husband. I didn’t murder him, I _ended_ him.” 

She drew back, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. “Do not ever speak to me of this again, Jory,” she said. “You may have been a knight, but that means little to the Wardens. They draw from all people and all walks of life. I’ve heard there are more killers and thieves and brigands in their ranks and for that I’m glad. Because I’ve learned I can’t trust _noble_ men like you to watch my back.” 

She walked past Jory, head held high. 

“Come on, Daveth,” she said. “Duncan’s waiting for us.” 

Rhea strode away into the camp, Daveth at her side, the setting sun blazing behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super huge thank you to @bearly-tolerable, @lavellanlove, @lechatrouge673 and @magpie-song for being so lovely and so supportive of this novella. The female Grey Warden side characters are named after their OCs, respectively: Sarya Lavellan, Avira Lavellan, Theodosia Mac Tir and Nadine Trevelyan. Thank you so much, loves! Your comments mean the world. ❤


	6. In Death, Sacrifice

Night settled in earnest as Rhea and Daveth made their way to the battlements. More stars had come out, scattered across the navy sky like little diamond pinpricks. Rhea had never seen so many stars. They weren’t nearly as bright in Denerim. 

“That was some punch,” Daveth said. 

Rhea shook her hand, stretching her fingers, knuckles crusted with Jory’s blood. She could feel the bruise growing already. She rubbed her hand on her trousers. “Yeah, well… It is what it is.” 

Daveth sighed, shaking his head. “Fucking Jory.” 

“Fucking Jory,” she agreed. 

They rounded the path, passing by clusters of soldiers gathered around flickering campfires, their voices a low, indistinct hum. It was growing cold and many had sought the refuge of their tents, save for those who craved drink or companionship. Rhea was surprised to see Cauthrien among them, who gave Rhea a nod of recognition. When she saw Daveth, her expression darkened, and she promptly turned her back on him.  

“Should I even ask?” Rhea said. 

Daveth coughed. “Uh… No. Not worth your while.” 

“You’re doing a terrible job of killing my curiosity.” 

“Oh, and if I said ‘yes’, that would be better, huh? Your sense of curiosity has me trapped.” 

She chuckled. “I’m guessing there’s a bit of truth to what Jory said.” 

“Ehh… Yeah. You got me there. Look, Rey, if I knew—” 

“He was trying to bait us by making me jealous,” Rhea interrupted. “I’m not going to fall for that. And I meant what I said—it’s none of my business.” She paused, glancing back at the campfire and Cauthrien’s dark outline. “Though Cauthrien, really? I’m surprised she went for you.” 

“Hey!” Daveth exclaimed. “I’m trying not to be insulted here.” 

“I mean she’s beautiful,” Rhea continued, “but she doesn’t strike me as the casual kind. Far too serious for you.” 

“She takes her sense of duty to Teyrn Loghain very seriously, true,” Daveth said. “But once you get past that, even she has a light side. Sometimes she even cracks a joke.” 

“So, what was with the death glare?” 

Daveth sighed heavily. “She and I don’t see eye to eye on the wardens,” he said. “She has… apprehensions about the order.” 

“I got that feeling from her, too.” 

“It’s as if she thinks this is one big con,” Daveth continued. “She doesn’t believe this is a Blight, just like the teyrn. I may have called her an idiot. Among a few other things. And she called me a blind fool, among a few other things.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Safe to say she doesn’t think much of my opinion any more.” 

Rhea stepped on a fallen branch, which cracked underfoot. She stopped. “What do you think, Dav?” she asked quietly. They were near the battlements now. She could see lamps lit above, the red and orange flames flickering in the dark. An armoured figure paced anxiously back and forth, his outline illuminated by the flames. Alistair, probably. “About the wardens?” 

“Here’s the thing, Rey,” Daveth said. “Ostagar feels like it’s at the edge of the world, but it’s not. Not really. The village I grew up in isn’t far from here. There are people, good people, living all over Fereldan who don’t have the luxury of hiding safely behind walls if the darkspawn come for them. And there’s an awful lot of darkspawn on the surface.” He paused, folding his arms. “That horde’s real, no one can deny it. The wardens know darkspawn better than anyone, except maybe Orzammar—and if Babs’ stories about them are true, they’ll be no help at all. If we’re going to get rid of them before they destroy everything, who else can we trust except the Grey Wardens?” 

Rhea chewed the inside of her cheek. She thought of the soldiers in the infirmary, ordinary men and women who had been sent out into the wilds and came back with missing limbs, shredded skin and blighted sickness. That could very well have been her fate, and Daveth’s and Jory’s, if not for Alistair and his Grey Warden capabilities. 

Ordinary soldiers, no matter how well they were trained, could do very little here. 

“We need them,” Rhea said quietly. “But I don’t know if I can trust them yet.” Above, Alistair’s shadow continued to pace. “Something’s wrong, Dav. Collecting darkspawn blood, secret ceremonies, keeping us isolated from other wardens—” 

“I know,” Dav said heavily. “But—” 

“You saw how Sarya and the others were when me mentioned the initiation,” Rhea continued. “Something’s off. You don’t keep secrets unless there’s something you need to hide.” 

“I know,” Daveth said. “And to be perfectly honest, thinking about all that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It makes me want to run. Just go. Get out before this gets worse. And if this was happening a year ago, maybe that’s what I would have done. But now… I don’t have anywhere else to go. It’s like you said, maybe—just maybe—I have a place here. A better one than Denerim, even.” He cocked his head to the side and chuckled. “And the funny thing is, being with the wardens… We’d be saving an awful lot of people by stopping the darkspawn. There’s something satisfying knowing that, you know? Thieves and heroes, one and the same.” He glanced at her. “Maybe I’m not as selfish as I thought.” 

She met his eyes. “You were never that selfish to begin with.” 

“Glad to know someone thinks highly of me,” Daveth said with a small laugh. “I don’t agree, but thanks, I guess.” He exhaled, long and slow. “Whatever happens tonight, I’m going to go through with it. Whatever shady shit is involved with this initiation, I trust that Duncan is a good man. He saved me. He didn’t have to. He could very well have gotten me arrested and executed instead. Same for you.” 

Rhea pursed her lips. “Yeah. I know.” 

Daveth nodded towards the battlements. “Come on,” he said. “It’s long after sundown now. We shouldn’t keep Alistair waiting any longer. It’s making me dizzy watching him walking around in circles like that.” 

“Dav—” 

Daveth started down the path, walking briskly towards the battlements. Rhea watched as he began the long climb up the white stone stairs, her arms folded tightly around her, fingers digging into skin. Her gut was knotted with anticipation, rooting her to her spot. As Daveth took step after step up the battlements, she felt an overwhelming sense of apprehension, like teetering on the edge of a vast chasm—and it wouldn’t be long before she fell headlong into it. 

Her life had changed. And it was about to change again, forever. She could stop it, if she wanted. She could turn and run. But after all she had been through in the past two days—arriving in Ostagar, fighting the darkspawn, seeing the soldiers, Sarya and her band—it wasn’t that easy to turn her back on the path Duncan had set her on. 

The path Daveth had so readily accepted. 

“Shit,” Rhea hissed. 

She took off, sprinting down the path. Her feet hit the white stone of the steps with a hollow thud, and she catapulted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When she reached the top of the battlements, she was winded, breathing hard, her sides aching. She stumbled towards the flickering lamps, trying to disguise her exhaustion from the others as she arrived. 

Jory had beat her and Daveth to the battlements, having come the long way around. He had cleaned himself up, but his nose was a bright purple mess. He scowled at Rhea, an insult on the tip of his tongue, but as she raised a hand and gave him a scathing wave, he fell silent. 

Daveth stood with Alistair, arms folded, foot tapping, looking to and fro. “Where’s Duncan?” he asked. 

“He’ll be here soon,” Alistair said grimly. He glanced at Rhea, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you took punctuality so seriously, Rhea. You didn’t have to run up all those stairs just for me—” 

Rhea clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Whatever this is, Alistair, we’re ready.” 

Jory barked a laugh. “You hardly speak for the rest of us, Tabris.” 

“Does that mean you’re _not_ ready to become a Warden, Jory?” Rhea retorted. 

Daveth sniggered and Jory fell silent, fuming and glaring at Rhea. 

Alistair sighed heavily. “Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something here?” 

“There’s nothing to miss,” Daveth said, clapping Alistair on the shoulder. “Just some friendly banter between comrades—” 

“Tabris is not what I would call friendly,” Jory said. 

“She’s perfectly friendly,” Daveth said. _“Perfectly.”_  

Jory grunted, shaking his head. He looked away, avoiding eye contact with Rhea. He clearly did not want to admit that she was the reason his nose was broken. 

Alistair rested a hand against his forehead. “All right, what happened?” 

Rhea scuffed the ground with her foot. 

“Not your concern, Alistair,” Jory said. 

“I’m your senior, so yes, it is my concern,” Alistair said. “You didn’t sustain that injury from our mission this morning, Ser Jory. What happened?” 

“I punched him,” Rhea said. 

Jory and Daveth stared at her. 

“That,” she added, pointing at Jory’s broken nose, “is my handiwork.” She shrugged. “He deserved it.” 

Jory scowled. “And she has no sense of respect, she admits it herself!”

“Hate to break it to you, mate,” Daveth said. “But you really did deserve it.” 

Jory cursed. “Of all the confounding things in this world—I never imagined my fate would be to become a warden alongside the likes of you!” 

“You’re not wardens yet,” Alistair said grimly. “Would you please stop yelling? This is supposed to be a solemn event—” 

“To be fair,” Daveth said, “we don’t really know what this is about since you haven’t explained anything. How were we supposed to know this is a fancy party where you’re not allowed to throw friendly punches?” 

Alistair groaned. “As a general rule, I’d avoid trying to hit the people who are supposed to watch your back.” 

“That’s why I said _friendly_ punches. We’re all friends here, right?” 

“Hardly,” Jory said darkly. 

“Comrades, then?” 

“You are what you will need to be to defeat the coming darkness,” a new voice said grimly. 

Rhea turned and saw Duncan approach through the shadows, tall and grim. His white and silver armour shone brightly in the flickering lamplight. He carried with him an ornate silver chalice, which he set sombrely on a long, narrow table nearby. He gazed at the gathered warden recruits, eyes narrowing as he looked over Jory’s broken nose, Daveth’s nonchalant manner, Rhea’s guarded stance and Alistair’s petrified horror.   

“Duncan,” Alistair began, “I—” 

“The members of our order come from all walks of life,” Duncan said. “They do not always see eye to eye, in the beginning. But the time comes swiftly to set such petty differences aside and look to the greater concerns at hand. And for you, unfortunately, it comes much more quickly. The bulk of the horde is close. It will not be long now, which makes our business tonight all the more urgent.” 

Silence fell over them in the wake of Duncan’s words. A sharp breeze blew across the battlements and Rhea shivered. She thought she could taste snow on the wind. 

“And what is our business tonight?” she asked. 

“The Joining,” Duncan replied. “The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation.” He pulled out the first of the three darkspawn vials and dumped the contents into the chalice. 

Jory’s eyes went wide. Rhea glanced at Daveth, who shook his head in disbelief. 

“And so it was,” Duncan continued, “that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.” 

“We’re going to drink the blood of those creatures?” Jory stammered.

 _No,_ Rhea thought, thinking of the soldiers in the infirmary. She recalled Alistair’s warning from the wilds that morning, how insistent he was that they not let the blood touch their lips. _The blood is toxic, why would you ever ingest something like that?_  

She shot a look at Alistair, who avoided her gaze. He bowed his head solemnly. 

“You will drink,” Duncan said. “As the first Grey Wardens did before us, and as we did before you. This is the source of our power and our victory.” 

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit!_  

Rhea’s heart hammered in her chest. “But it will kill us,” she said. “Darkspawn blood will _kill_ us—” 

“Not necessarily,” Alistair said. “Not always. Duncan and I are proof of that, aren’t we? It takes a very specific person to survive the blood’s power, and the Wardens only seek out those who have the best chance of survival—” 

Jory laughed hollowly. 

“—and those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint,” Alistair continued, ignoring Jory. “We can sense it in the darkspawn.”   

“It’s how you know where they are,” Rhea said. “It’s how you knew, back in the wilds. It’s why you had to come with us. We would have died if we had been on our own.” 

“Died or worse,” Alistair said. “It’s powerful, the darkspawn sense. We can use it to slay the archdemon. It’s the only way to defeat a Blight.” 

“So, that’s it? That’s the great secret?” Jory’s face was white, contrasting sharply with the purple of his broken nose. “Drink this foul poison and—if you survive—gain the strength of a warden? Maker’s breath, no wonder you keep it hidden! If the world knew—” 

“This knowledge is sacred to the wardens,” Duncan said. “No man or woman who is not of the order may be privy to it.” 

“And you want us to die for this?” Jory exclaimed, flushing red. “I am a trained warrior. I was knighted by King Cailan himself, for Andraste’s sake! I have proven my worth time and again. No magic is a replacement for training and skill. What makes this warden immunity a worthy reason to sacrifice your recruits?” 

“Hey!” Daveth snapped, stepping forwards, fury in his eyes. “No Blight has ever been stopped without the wardens. If this is the sacrifice that must be made, then I would make it a hundred times over.” He glanced at Rhea, waiting for her to interject, as if he expected her to say something. But when she remained silent, he continued speaking, the passion of his words doubled “I will gladly risk my life for the power to stop the darkspawn.” 

Jory laughed bitterly. “You clearly have nothing you care for, Daveth. Nothing to lose. I have a wife. I have a family—” 

“You think because I’m nobody, because I’m a street rat from Denerim that I have nothing to lose?” Daveth said. “Maybe you’re right, mate. Maybe I’ve lost it already. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be letting go of something I love.” 

Rhea looked away. She thought of Shianni, her laughing face, her bright red hair, her smile. Then it melted away, replaced with the unwanted memory of Shianni bruised and beaten, crying, in pain as she scrambled away from the man in noble’s clothing who loomed over her— 

 _Never again._  

Shianni fought. Shianni lived. And Rhea would protect her with her dying breath. 

“I’ll sacrifice everything I have and more if it means an end to the Blight,” Daveth said. 

“As I would I,” Rhea said, her voice sharp and fierce, full of renewed purpose. “Maybe you should have thought twice about what that really means before you became a recruit.” 

Jory blanched and fell silent. He looked at his feet, cowed by Rhea and Daveth’s intensity. 

Duncan nodded, the hint of a smile—or what passed for a smile with a man as stoic as him—on his lips. “We speak only a few words prior to the Joining,” he said. “But these words have been said since the first.” He glanced at Alistair, gesturing him forwards. “Alistair, if you would.” 

Alistair bowed his head, hands clasped before him. They stood in a circle, facing each other, eyes averted. The lamps flickered in the wind. One blew out.   

“Join us, brothers and sisters,” Alistair said. “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that you sacrifice shall not be forgotten—” 

Jory shifted his weight. Rhea caught Daveth’s eye and he looked back at her, his gaze intense. He mouthed something, but she couldn’t make out what it was. 

“—and that one day,” Alistair finished, “we shall join you.” 

The wind howled across the valley. A lock of hair escaped Rhea’s braid and blew across her face. She brushed it behind her ear. 

Duncan lifted the silver chalice. “Daveth,” he said. “Step forward.” 

Daveth glanced at Rhea. An impulse deep within her almost made her grab his hand, pull him close, embrace him, kiss him—but she didn’t move. She was frozen in place. 

Duncan waited. 

Daveth approached, accepting the chalice. He tilted his head back, raised the cup to his lips and drank. He lowered the chalice, lips stained black with darkspawn blood and grimaced. He turned to Rhea, a smile on his face, eyes bright, a witty remark not yet said— 

And then his eyes turned white and he doubled over, convulsing. The chalice dropped from his grip and clattered to the stone, rolling away. He fell to the ground, his body thrashing in ways that looked inhuman. He gasped, breath rasping in his lungs as if escaping him. He reached out with a stretching hand, grasping at something they couldn’t see— 

Then he collapsed forward, face-down on the broken stone of the battlements, and moved no more. 

Rhea stared at his limp body in shock. 

 _Dav?_  

He did not get up. 

 _Daveth?_  

The horror rose in her. She wanted to scream, to cry, to have any kind of reaction—so why was she standing there, frozen solid? 

She was numb. 

So numb.

Duncan bowed his head. “I am sorry, Daveth.” 

He was dead. 

_No._

Daveth was dead.

 _No—no—that can’t be right, that can’t be it. All those things he said, he was supposed to_ live _, damn it, he’s not supposed to die here, not now, not this way, he’s supposed to be a warden—_  

Rhea’s thoughts whirled. Her stomach heaved. She choked and whirled, knees hitting stone, vomiting into the weeds that curled their way up through the broken stone. 

Alistair stood still. His lips moved, speaking a quiet prayer to Andraste. 

Duncan retrieved the chalice. He took the second vial and poured its contents into it. He held it out. “Step forward, Jory.” 

Jory backed away. “No— _no—_ I have a wife, a child. Had I known—” 

Duncan stepped forward with the chalice. “There is no turning back.” 

Rhea lifted her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her stomach churned, her sides ached. From her knees, she watched as Jory reached for his greatsword, drawing it. 

“You ask too much!” he shouted. “There is no glory in this—” 

Duncan set the chalice down. He drew a dagger. “I am sorry, Jory,” he said. 

“No—” 

It wasn’t a fight. Duncan moved swiftly, expertly. Jory swung once at him, but Duncan dodged the heavy blade and thrust his dagger into the base of Jory’s throat. Blood spattered and an awful gurgling sound escaped Jory’s throat. Duncan removed his dagger and Jory collapsed forwards, his life blood spilling out in a sticky pool around his body. 

“I am sorry,” Duncan said. 

Alistair repeated the prayer to Andraste, his voice little more than a whisper. Wind howled across the battlements. Rhea was rooted in place and watched in horror as Duncan retrieved the chalice and approached her, proffering it to her. 

“The Joining is not yet complete,” Duncan said, standing over her, his shadow long and dark in the light of the flickering flames. “Rhea Tabris, you are called upon to submit yourself to the taint. For the greater good. Accept, and from this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden.” 

Rhea got to her feet, swaying slightly. She tugged the chain around her neck free, pulling her wedding bands into her hand and clasping them tight. She kissed them and tucked them back under her tunic. She glanced at Jory’s body, then at Daveth’s, and stepped forward to accept the chalice. 

There was no going back now. 

 _Your life has changed, and it will change again a hundred times before it is over._ Daveth’s words came to her unbidden. _Resisting that is going to hurt you more than it will help._

This, then, was a change she would not resist.

Come what may, she would accept whatever fate the Maker had in store for her. And if she died, if the darkspawn blood killed her—then at least her pain would be at an end.

She seized the chalice from Duncan’s hand, raised it to her lips and drank. 

She tasted the acrid tang of the blood, felt the queasiness as it coated her tongue, her mouth, her throat. She swallowed, grimacing, as she looked at Alistair and Duncan. She felt no different, save for the pungent taste in her mouth. 

And then the world exploded into white light. 

Blinding pain coursed through her body. Her whole being, her essence, her sense of self, was torn asunder. She was ice, she was fire, she was everything and nothing. She screamed, but she had no voice. She wept, but she had no tears. 

She saw Shianni, crying and wailing, crumpled on the ground. 

She saw herself, sword in hand, her wedding dress covered in blood, standing over a dead body. 

 _In war, victory._  

She saw Soris, jokingly elbowing her on their joint wedding day. 

She saw Nelaros, standing beneath the Vhenadahl, telling her she was beautiful and how lucky he was to be marrying her. 

 _In peace, vigilance._  

She saw her mother, hanging from a tree while the city watch laughed and jeered. 

She saw Daveth, grinning at her one moment, then lying limp on the ground the next. 

 _In death, sacrifice._  

A rushing roar filled her ears. An image flashed before her eyes—a giant dragon, arching its neck, raising its wings, its endless shriek filling the void for eternity. The dragon’s head whipped to and fro. Its eyes found hers and it stared deep into her soul and _hissed—_

Darkness took her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Duncan and Alistair's dialogue is taken from the DA:O script.


	7. The Long Night

Rhea woke to howling wind. 

Her eyes were bleary, her vision fuzzy. She sat up, head and body aching, and pressed a hand against her forehead. Her head was pounding. 

“Here,” a familiar voice said. “Drink some water. It’ll help.” 

Daveth? No, not Daveth. Daveth was… 

Daveth was… 

“Take it,” the voice insisted. 

Rhea’s fingers closed around a flask. She lifted it to her parched lips and drank. Cool water flowed into her mouth and swallowed. She coughed, her whole body shaking. She drank more water. 

“Better?” 

She nodded. 

“Good.” 

Rhea blinked and saw Alistair sitting beside her—and everything came crashing back. 

_“Maker's wretched breath—”_ She slipped sideways, nearly falling off the bench. 

Alistair grabbed her shoulders. “Careful now—” 

Rhea doubled over and retched, vomit landing on Alistair’s boots. 

“Ah. Well. Should have expected that.” He patted her gently on the back. “I’m sorry, we should have told you that could happen. It’ll pass soon.” 

Rhea wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What… What happened? How long have I been out?” 

“A few hours,” Alistair said. “It’s the Joining. It takes a terrible toll on the body—” 

Rhea stood up. 

“I wouldn’t do that—” 

She ignored him. “Where are—” 

The rush went to her head. Rhea sat down. 

Alistair patted her back. “Told you.” 

“Don’t patronize me, Alistair,” Rhea snapped. “I’m not a child.” 

“No,” he said. “You’re a Grey Warden.” 

A Grey Warden… 

So this nightmare was real. She had consumed darkspawn blood and now she was… tainted? No. She was immune. She had the power to fight the Blight. 

What a fucking miracle. 

“If you expected more pomp and ceremony, unfortunately we don’t have that,” Alistair said. “It’s more of a ‘drink some darkspawn blood, knock yourself out for three hours, have some horrible dreams and vomit’ kind of thing than a special ceremony kind of thing—”

“Where’s Duncan?” Rhea interrupted. 

Alistair fell quiet. He rose to his feet. “I’ll show you.” 

They descended the battlements, Rhea still shaky on her legs, though she did her best to hide it. Alistair led her across the camp. Through the shadows she saw Sarya and Cassian, deep in conversation. Only hours ago, she and Daveth had sat with them, drank with them, talked with them— 

A sharp, jagged pain cut across her heart. They must have known what would happen. They must have known there was a chance they would not survive. And yet they kept that hidden, smiling through it all, speaking as if they would soon be comrades, brothers and sisters-in-arms, welcome into this fold of legendary warriors. 

How dare they. _How dare they_ —it would have been better to not befriend them at all than do what they had done. To pretend as if everything would be fine. 

It was not fine. 

_Fuck them,_ Rhea thought. _Fuck all of them._

She stomach roiled. She felt sick. She forced it down and continued to walk. She had to move forward. She had to find Duncan. 

He was the cause of all this.   

Alistair led her into a little glade tucked away in a corner of the ruins. A bonfire blazed there. Duncan stood beside it, the flames reflected in his white and silver armour, head bowed, eyes closed. Alistair gestured at him, and murmured something about leaving them alone before he took off into the night. 

Rhea approached the flames, wondering what cause there was for celebration. 

But it wasn’t a bonfire.  

It was a funeral pyre. 

“Welcome, sister,” Duncan finally said as she approached. 

Rhea watched the flames soar. She could just make out the shadows of Daveth and Jory’s bodies. Numbness swept over her. “I don’t feel welcome.” 

“Not many of us do,” he replied. “It is a difficult thing the Order asks of you. The Joining is a trial not to be taken lightly. Not all who undergo survive. These are but the first sacrifices you will witness as a Grey Warden.” 

“I didn’t ask for this,” Rhea said. “You forced me to say yes.” 

“And here you stand, alive.” 

“Here I am,” Rhea said bitterly. “But for how long? How long until _I_ am the next sacrifice?” 

“I cannot say,” Duncan said. “But it is a truth that one day, sacrifice comes for us all.” 

“Like it came for Daveth?” She nearly choked on his name. “And Jory?” 

“Daveth accepted his fate willingly,” Duncan said. “He became a recruit because he saw a chance to change his life. He risked and he lost, and for that I am sorry. But the choice was all his own and we must respect that, as those who continue on.” 

“And what of Jory?” Rhea said. Maker, she despised that man, but he hadn't deserved such a fate. “What choice did he have?” 

“He sought the wardens for the glory and honour. He was misled by his own impressions and, for that reason, he died.” 

“Died? You _killed_ him!” 

“I did what was asked of me,” Duncan said gravely. “There was no turning back for Jory.” 

Rhea's jaw clenched. “What of his wife?" she spat. "What of his unborn child? The wardens took away his life—will they help her in return?” 

“Only if we stop the Blight.” 

The pyre’s flames danced. Standing as close as she was, Rhea felt she would burn herself. “The teyrn doesn’t believe it is a Blight,” she said, thinking of Ser Cauthrien. "Not him, nor any of the soldiers he leads." 

Duncan’s expression darkened. “The teyrn does not know of what he speaks. This _is_ a Blight. And we must do what we can to stop it here and now, before it swallows Ferelden whole.” He paused, staring deep into the flames. “You saw it, did you not?” 

“What?” 

“The archdemon.” 

She remembered the dragon. Its terrible shriek. The way its eyes found her and looked directly into her heart. “Yes.” 

“That is how I know,” Duncan said. “I’ve seen it, too. As has every Grey Warden since the darkspawn first began emerging in Ferelden.” 

Rhea swallowed hard. “What… _is_ it?” 

“A creature of terrible power,” Duncan said. “A marshal of evil. The darkspawn’s commander. To kill the Blight, we must kill it.” 

_Great,_ Rhea thought bitterly. 

Three years ago, she was a scrawny little nobody, running with a gang on Denerim’s streets, thieving, but not killing. A month ago, she killed man. Today, she killed darkspawn. And now she may have to kill a dragon. 

Some may see that as moving up in the world, but she didn't. She knew how to pick pockets, not slay demons. She was far from the right person for this job. 

“Is it here?” Rhea asked. “Have you seen it in Ostagar?” 

“Not yet,” Duncan said. “But I sense its movements. It is near. It won’t stray far from the horde.” 

“Which is coming straight for us.” 

“Tomorrow, there will be a red dawn,” Duncan said gravely. “You have joined us at the right time, Rhea. Your mother, I think, would be proud of you.” 

“No,” she said. “She wouldn’t. She would be furious.” 

“Give her more credit,” Duncan said. “Adaia was a warrior—” 

Rhea snorted. “She’s my mother, I think I know her better than you. She would have balked at your gall.” 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Duncan said. “She balked when I asked to recruit her, many years ago.” 

Rhea’s mouth opened, but no words came out. _What?_  

“She refused, of course. She couldn’t abandon her family, and she was right to say so. Though afterward she proclaimed that should Thedas ever face a Blight again in her lifetime, she wished to be called upon to fight.” Duncan looked at Rhea, the glow from the pyre casting moving shadows across his face. “In a way, you are upholding your mother’s desire to protect the world from its greatest danger.” 

“So she was a better woman than me,” Rhea said. “She would have chosen to go, whereas I had to be forced—” 

“I did not force you, Rhea,” Duncan said. “I offered you a way out. Nothing less, nothing more. And you chose to take that offer. I am not your nemesis here.”     

Rhea folded her arms, wrapping them around herself. She felt cold, tired, exhausted. Numb. She hated what she felt, but no matter how she pushed herself, she always came back to the same cold spiral. There was no escape when she was the guardian of her own prison. 

“I know,” she said finally. “I’m… sorry.” 

“Your hurt runs deep,” he said. “It is natural to lash out. But know you do not need to keep the anger to yourself. You are a warden now. They may not be the family you want, but they are the one you have.” 

He put a hand on her shoulder. “Get some rest. The king will call for Alistair and yourself in a few hours. The horde is close. Make use of what little time remains.” 

Duncan left, melting into the shadows. Rhea remained by the pyre, watching it burn. She spotted an old broken bench and sat down, holding her head in her hands, staring endlessly into the flames. 

No matter how hot the flames were, she could not shake the numbness that permeated every part of her. 

Her mother was gone. 

Her cousins, gone. 

Nelaros, gone. 

Daveth… gone. 

She half expected him to stroll around the corner, singing out-of-tune shanties and plucking at his lute. She could not comprehend that last night, he had lain with her during that storm, making her _feel,_ helping her blot out of her pain. She had fought beside him today. He had saved her life, and she had saved his. Just a few hours ago, she had kissed him. 

He was supposed to be here. He kept her sane. He kept her from drowning. He kept her _alive._  

She had used him to hide her agony, but now he was gone. All there was left was the stinging, hollow _ache_ where he had once been. 

She hated him for it.

She had pushed him away so many times, but all she wanted right now was for him to come back to her. He always came back to her. That’s what he _did,_ even when she didn’t want him to. That was how their relationship _worked._  

Rhea screamed. 

She held her head in her hands and she screamed herself hoarse. A vivid, uncontrollable scream. It gave her power, it gave her purpose, it gave her a reason to exist, here, on this bench, by this fire. 

She screamed. 

And when she could scream no more, she slid from the bench and sank to her knees in the grass, head bowed, black hair tumbling around her shoulders. 

The tears didn’t come. 

She tried, but they refused. Shit. Fuck. How terrible a person was she—had she cared for him so little, she couldn’t even cry for him? Had she just used him and spat him back out? 

What did it matter? 

He was dead now. 

He wasn’t coming back. 

“Rey?” 

Alistair. Again. Cautious and tentative. He was hopeless. That boy really needed to get a backbone. 

“Don’t call me Rey,” Rhea snapped, scrambling to her feet. 

“All right, I won’t.” He ran a hand through his hair and took a breath. “I’m sorry this is all happening so fast for you. I became a warden six months ago and I barely know anything. But you… You were dragged into this and it’s really fair, is it?” 

“Thanks for feeling angry on my behalf,” Rhea said. “I don’t need it.” 

“Listen,” Alistair said. “What I’m trying to say is that… the Joining is terrible. But it has to happen. A necessary evil, if you like. Not all of them end the way yours did, but he fact of the matter is that people die. Mine was… well, I won’t trouble you with the details. It’s horrible and it’s shocking, but not everyone can withstand the taint.” 

He looked to the pyre, the orange flames illuminating his face, dancing across his blue and silver armour. 

“I didn’t know either of them for very long, but… they were good men. Good people.” 

Rhea nodded. “Yeah. Good… good people.” Her fingers sought the bands on their chain. She drew them out and curled her fingers around them. 

Silence fell between them. There was nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the crackling of the flames. 

“I brought you something,” Alistair said. 

Rhea didn’t look at him. “What?” 

“It’s a tradition,” Alistair said. He took her hand and slipped something into it, something hard and cold and heavy. A silver pendant on a long chain, engraved with the Grey Warden insignia. 

Rhea looked at it and frowned. 

“After the Joining,” Alistair continued, “we take some of the blood and put it in a pendant. To remember those who fell. We will remember them to the very end.” 

Rhea’s fingers closed over the pendant, pressing it sharply into the palm of her hand. Something to remember by. She was full of trinkets to remember those she had lost. Her mother’s dagger. Her wedding bands. Now this pendant. 

It felt very heavy in her hand. She wanted to throw it away, kick it into the dirt. 

“Thank you,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. She hesitated, the tip of her tongue resting on the back of her teeth. “What an idiot you must think I am. Reacting like this when we’ve got bigger problems to deal with.” 

“The problems can wait,” Alistair said. “At least until they catch up with us. Which could be at any moment.” He paused and gave a shaky laugh. “I see your point.” 

There was a hard lump in Rhea’s throat. It was right there, dancing on the edge of a knife—the desperate need to tell him that the pain she felt wasn’t the pain of lost comrades or friends, it was something more. That Daveth wasn’t some man she had met the day before, but something else, someone else— 

_No._  

She had to let him go. He was in her life, and now he was out of it. Like always. Only this time it was for good. If she spoke of him now, to Alistair of all people, it would only bring him back. 

Rhea thrust the pendant into her pocket. “Duncan says there will be a battle tomorrow.” 

“He’s usually right about those things,” Alistair replied. “The pendant wasn’t the only thing I brought you. Again, not much ceremony with this, but since you’re officially a Grey Warden now, I think you’ll be needing it.” 

Rhea watched, brow furrowed, as Alistair dragged forth a chest, setting it on the bench and opening it. She drew close, curious about its contents. She breathed in sharply as she peered into the chest and tentatively reached forward with a hand. 

Inside the chest was a beautifully crafted set of blue and silver armour. It was similar in design to the leathers given to her by the king’s quartermaster, allowing for a wide range of movement, but it offered better protection. She ran her fingers over the mail, marveling in its supple design and beautiful details. She touched the silverite griffin on the shoulder and her stomach dropped. 

This was her armour. 

It belonged to _her._  

Rhea pulled out the blue cloak and fastened it around her shoulders. It was warm and soft to the touch. 

“You’re crying.” 

Rhea pressed a hand to her cheek and felt the wetness there. She laughed, small and quiet. “Yeah. I am.” 

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” 

She chuckled. “I don’t know. Can’t it be both?” 

He nodded and she smiled, shaking and shuddering through her tears. But it was a smile nonetheless. 

Rhea and Alistair sat together, side by side, and watched the pyre burn out. She half expected him to fill the silence, babbling on about things that didn’t matter, making awkward jokes that only he found funny. But he didn’t. Somehow he knew she needed silence, and that was what he gave her. 

She wondered what had happened during his Joining. Who had died. Who had been killed. Who he had lost. 

Everyone made sacrifices. Everyone lost someone. In that regard, she could never be alone. 

“You should get some sleep,” Alistair said quietly. “It’s going to be a long night.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not. You can pretend to be, but you’re not.” 

She thought of the dragon. The archdemon. The _thing_ she had seen in her mind’s eye. “I’d rather not sleep.” _Not if that monster is there, waiting for me._  

“All right.” 

“I’d like to stay here,” Rhea said. She looked at him. “Would you stay with me?” 

He nodded. “Of course.” 

Duncan said the Grey Wardens were her family now. Maybe he hadn’t lied. Maybe he hadn’t exaggerated. Maybe it wasn’t simply a figure of speech. She was alone in the world, but she was also part of something else. 

Something important.   

Something that could determine the fate of the world. 

She couldn’t resist the change any longer. Whatever path she now found herself on… Maybe all she needed was to embrace it and give it a chance. 

She was a Grey Warden.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with this terribly angsty fic that ended up being a lot longer than I intended it to be. Your comments give me life, I am so grateful for all of them! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little snippet of Rhea's story (and if you're wondering, things do get better for her after Ostagar). ❤❤❤


End file.
